


I Like My Coffee Black

by Shadow_Ember



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Build, but Hawkeye and Black widow are still awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Ember/pseuds/Shadow_Ember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is just your normal everyday barista. He takes orders, brews coffee, and hands it to customers with a scowl on his face. But when a mysterious red haired girl sneaks into the backroom at his work, his normal life is suddenly consumed by a mess of agents and criminals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cafe Americano

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea rattling around in my brain for a while, so I figured I should finally just write it. This will be the most complex story I've attempted so far, so dear readers, wish me luck!  
> If you haven't gathered by now, this story is a mish-mosh between various Marvel movies. You have been warned.  
> As always, I do not own anything from the Marvel universe.

     Clint huffed into the cold air, watching as his breath turned into puffy cotton candy clouds. He buried his hands in his coat pockets because the thin lining of his gloves provided him with little to keep the cold out. As he walked through the snow-riddled streets of New York, he shrunk in on himself, both from the cold and from the guarded gazes of other commuters.  
 

     At one point, Clint almost collided with a man who was particularly slow, or more perhaps because Clint was walking so fast. The stranger’s head had turned to look into one of the store displays, but apparently, the man severely lacked body coordination. As his head completed the action, the neural signal it sent to the rest of his body was mixed up, and the man’s body slowed suddenly. Clint was forced to brake quickly, rising almost to the tips of his toes from the sudden stop in force. The man turned around quickly, muttering profuse apologies, but Clint pushed past with a grumble. All he was concerned about was getting to work.  
 

     He arrived at his destination after braving the cold atmosphere until his nose had started to turn numb. His work was a small coffee shop, located in a part of town that was known for its unique mix of urban and classical styles. The shop itself was amid the modern pocket of buildings. A few stores down from the corner of Downing and Marlow, the shop sat plainly between an alley and a bakery. There were other small shops lining the corner, such as a small fashion boutique on the other side of the alley and a bookstore on the corner. Across the street to the north was a small park that possessed the loveliest green grass and was often a center for public events.  Farther down the street was a large university that made up most of the coffee shop’s customers.  
 

     To the east lay the older buildings. Opposite the corner was the Downing Theater, which despite its older cinema appearance, received a lot of traffic. An old church inhabited the adjacent corner to the northeast, though it had been a long time since any services were held there. The place had become a museum of sorts for the area. Both these buildings were designed similarly, with large swooping arches and intricate sculptures and motifs, all fashioned out of an aged stone material. 

     Clint arrived at his work just as the sun started rising. The Café Americano was lit with a warm light that spilled through its windows and beckoned to all drowsy morning goers. It rivaled even the sun’s dawn with its beckoning warmth.     
 Clint fumbled with his keys, the wooly gloves making his fingers clumsy, like large, fat caterpillars. The distinct scent of coffee greeted his nose as soon as he stepped inside. Clint was sure the odor had made permanent residence in his clothes a long time ago.  
 

     Steve Rogers, his boss, called out cheerily from the back, “Hello, Clint. Good morning.”  
 

     Clint replied with his tired, “Morning,” like always. He shuffled into the colorful shop, peeling layers of clothing off himself as the heat of the café instantly made them unnecessary. 

      “Its pretty chilly out there, huh?” Steve said as he wiped down the front counter, “I turned the heat on extra high today.”  
 

      “I can tell.” Clint ducked quickly into the backroom. He shoved his extra clothes into his employee locker, and snatched the red and blue apron and matching nametag from their place. The apron was around his waist in a flash, and Clint nimbly tied it securely. He walked back into the front as he pinned the obscene “Hello! My name is:” tag onto his shirt.

      Steve popped into his view, and Clint’s face was assaulted with blonde hair because the man was considerably shorter than him. Steve’s smile was far too cheery as he said, “We’ll probably be pretty busy today. People will be wanting some coffee to warm them up.”

     Clint shrugged his agreement. A wet rag was tossed his way. “Go ahead and clean off the tables. We need to get a head start because Sam’s not working today.”  
 

     “He’s not?” Clint asked as he began wiping the dust off the many tables and stools. Steve could be such a neat freak sometimes; the shop was cleaned last night, but the man insisted on having fresh tables for his guests in the morning.  
 

     The Café Americano was filled almost completely with rectangular, high tables and bar stools. There were only four small, two-seat tables in the establishment, all still at bar height. The windows of the cafe were lined with a built in bar too, so that customers could look out at the park. Most unusual of all, two retro booths were built into the wall on the left side of the café. They were circular, and like the rest of the stools, covered in red or blue vinyl with white piping on the seams. Colors were splayed everywhere in the shop, mainly painted with muted yellows and greens with bright red, white, and blue accents everywhere, because Steve was obsessed with the colors of the American flag. A vintage jukebox sat in the corner complete with a full track of hit songs from half a century ago. Altogether, the café resembled a soda shop from the 50’s more than anything else.  
 

     Clint was sure that Steve had been born in the wrong era when he first saw the cafe. Steve was proud of it, claiming it was “hip” and “in-style”. He was tempted to tell the man that it was most certainly not hip, and that the Café Americano looked more like a hangout from Grease than a modern shop, but he did not have the heart to tell him. When Steve smiled proudly at his cafe, filled with happy customers, Clint could perfectly picture the other dancing and swinging with a girl in a poodle skirt to colorful vintage music. 

      “Sam has his conference today. You know, the motivational one.” Steve explained.  
 

      “Ah,” Clint agreed. He did know. Since he was more concerned with the task at hand, Steve did not speak up until he had cleaned almost all of the tables, “It will be opening time soon, are you ready for the first customers?”  
   
      Clint huffed at the thought. “You mean am I ready to serve the before-coffee gremlins? I don’t believe I ever will be.” Steve’s mouth quirked upward. Clint heard him shuffle around with the coffee machines before he heard the man approach.  
 Steve tapped his shoulder, and thrust a Styrofoam cup of coffee into his hands. His eyes glinted, “Speaking of gremlins, I better give my gremlin of a barista his own coffee.”

      Clint rolled his eyes at the man. “Come on,” Steve urged, “Its black, just how you like it.”  
 

     Clint’s shoulders sunk in defeat. He accepted the coffee reluctantly. He took a sip, and the bitter liquid sent a much needed shock through his system. In Steve’s hands, he spied the man’s favorite drink and trademark, the iced Americano. It was his inspiration for the coffee shop, and had influenced its name. Honestly, Clint had not known another person to make as good an iced Americano as Steve.   
    

     “Better?” Steve asked. Clint nodded. “Good, because you’re taking orders today.” Steve turned deftly, running off to the kitchen to prepare more of the machines. Clint sighed and wished Sam was here. He did not particularly like dealing with customers, which was primarily the missing employee’s job. He preferred to make the coffee or keep everything clean.  
 

     In that moment, the door opened with its characteristic chime that often frayed on Clint’s nerves. He wished Steve did not insist on the annoying thing. The man who entered was short and chubby. He lifted a handkerchief to his face and a startling honk echoed in the empty shop as he cleared his nasal cavities. He sniffed loudly, and the paleness in his face matched the few clumps of snow that had managed to stick themselves to his coat. Clint barely suppressed the urge to groan at having to deal with the abomination known as humanity for the rest of the day.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     The sun had risen until it shined through the windows of the Café Americano, creating large, stretched out squares of brightness on the floor. Shadows danced constantly across them, both from the traffic outside and the stream of customers filling the small shop. 

      “I’ll have a peppermint mocha, with two shots of espresso and soy milk,” the customer said. Clint nodded briskly. As if he had not heard that order five times already that day. He swiped the man’s credit card quickly, and returned the piece of plastic with its receipt before motioning to the next customer.  
 

     The line was virtually endless. Clint worked quickly when he was taking customer’s orders. He was not one for idle chitchat - the mere idea sounded revolting - so he shuffled the line of mindless city penguins along as fast as he could. As far as customer service goes, Clint generally kept to the bare minimum. Exact change, perfect orders, and a tiny quirk of the lips if one was lucky, was all a customer could get. However, Clint did remember one time when a bubbly dancer from the nearby college had managed to make him laugh. Steve would not let him live it down. It was not his fault she had described his scrawny boss as a “wet noodle.” He couldn’t help but laugh at the refreshing backchat.  
 

     The next customer’s order was generally the same: a coffee with a substitution and about three extra ingredients. Clint fought the urge to roll his eyes. All of these people came to the Café Americano daily, buying all sorts of “froufrou” coffee. They dared to call themselves coffee connoisseurs, when really; all they ever drank was milk and sugar with a splash of coffee. If someone were to really love coffee, they would order their’s black, nothing added.  
 

     Clint hoped the line would eventually slow down. It kept coming, filled with people of all shapes and sizes. Sometimes he thought all of New York had come into the coffee shop at least once. Actually, it was quite a local hang out, and had even made it into newspapers and tourists pamphlets. 

     Behind him, the coffee machines buzzed to their own little song. Steve could be heard humming as he fixed everyone’s orders. Clint never understood where the man got his limitless energy. Coffee must run through his veins.

     Ignoring the cheerfulness his boss seemed to always exude, Clint turned his attention to the next customer. He was greeted by a large gray sweatshirt. Little of the clothing’s owner could be seen underneath it except for a few strands of red hair. He figured it was another college student; many of them tended to dress carelessly. Clint did not blame them. The idea of getting up early for classes that you had to pay for sounded unappealing to him.  
 

     “What would you like?” Clint asked in a bored tone.  
 

     The answer was deceivingly simple: “A large coffee.” Through all the times of his day resisting showing any outward sign of irritation that would seem off-putting to customers, Clint found this one the hardest. He figured the girl was new to buying coffee. It would be much simpler and faster to tell him from the start how she wanted her coffee.  
 Forcing a pleasant note into his voice, he implored, “And how would you like your coffee?”  
 

     “Black.”  
 

     Clint blinked. “Um, sorry, could you repeat that please?” His ears must surely be failing him; Steve always did say he listened to his music too loud. 

     Her response was the exact same word, but it was clipped at the end, as if the repetition was a waste of her time. Clint was sure if he could see her eyes, they would have completed an exaggerated circle within their sockets.  
 

     Slowly, as if he was on autopilot mode, he mumbled the price to her. Pulling a wad of cash out of her pocket, she meticulously, but swiftly, plucked the appropriate amount out of the stash and deposited it on the counter. Eyebrows lifted at her odd actions, and still in shock at the order, Clint counted the money, and began pulling her change out of the register with a clink. He was midway through his task, when she waved a curt hand dismissively, “Keep it,” she stated simply.  
 Clint wordlessly dumped the coins into the tip jar on the counter, decorated obscenely in a fiasco of red, white, and blue explosions. “Coming right up,” he said.  
 

     The girl moved on wordlessly, taking a seat at the window closest to the door. She propped her feet up on the countertop carelessly. The deft movement drew Clint’s attention, before he realized he was staring. Jerking himself into reality, and ignoring the fact that he had just bordered on stalker mode, Clint called the simple order back to Steve.  
 

     Steve replied jollily, and the machines whirred in their preparation of the special order. The next customer stepped up to the counter. Clint moved mindlessly, going through the motions –not like that was any different from his typical day at work – as he helped the man. Hoping not to be too obvious, he tried sneaking glances at the redhead lounging near the entrance to the shop.  
 

     He was not trying to be creepy, but he could not reign in his curiosity about the mysterious character. To others, the girl might seem shady, if the oversized hoodie and concealed face were any indicator. Clint could even see some of the other customers casting wary glances at her. Unintentionally, the line had morphed into an arc, as though she repelled people within a certain radius.

     Clint was not average though. He was interested in this fellow coffee drinker who shared the same preference as him. It had been a while since he had met someone who liked black coffee, at least if you excluded the few old people who probably grew up on ranches where the straight black sludge from the bottom of the pot was all they had to drink.  
 

     As his eyes continued to dart over to the girl, who steadily avoided eye contact because she was absorbed in her phone, Clint found himself feeling strangely optimistic. Steve was consistently cranking out orders, and Clint saw an opportunity to interact with her once more, in the form of handing her the coffee.  
 

     Out of the corner of his eye, he watched each order, feeling dismayed as each one was pumped full of cream and sugar and flavorings before being handed to him. He felt himself inflate, as if he were a balloon made entirely out of hope, when he finally saw Steve pour a cup of coffee and top it off with a lid before any extras could be added.  
 

     Clint impatiently stared at the customer he was currently helping, as if he could fire mental arrows at the person to make them move faster. The person, an owlish woman whose eyes hid behind large spectacles, squinted at the menu but remained as undecided as ever. His hand tapped against the counter in a vain attempt at patience. He felt the beat of his fingers was even faster than her thoughts. 

     Steve, oblivious to Clint’s situation, took it upon himself to deliver the plain coffee. “One large coffee, black,” he announced. 

     Clint’s head swiveled in alarm at his words. The redhead, without even looking up from her phone, extracted her self from the table and approached the counter. Steve’s smile was sunny, “Here you go, ma’am.”

     She accepted it without a word. Clint finally turned to glare daggers at Steve when she immediately walked out of the building. Steve’s brow crinkled in confusion at his expression. He glanced back at the redhead’s form retreating down the sidewalk and out of the view of the coffee shop. When his blue eyes drifted black to Clint, he saw the gears click inside his head. Immediately, a smug smile spread across Steve’s face, and he lifted an eyebrow in his direction. 

     Clint scowled and swiveled to face the owl lady. Her gaze was frustratingly blank, while the words swam in the reflection of her glasses. Finally, she opened her mouth to say something, but quickly shut it, muttering, “No, no…” Clint’s hand gripped the countertop harder. He wished the torture would just end.

 


	2. Meet Peggy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this update took forever! This chapter actually had to be split into two because it was becoming so long. There was some weird stuff going on when I was formatting, so I apologize if anything looks weird.
> 
> Warning: slight spoilers for Divergent
> 
> As always, I do not own anything or anyone from the Avengers.

Clint was weary by the time the sun had set and the last few stragglers had made it out the door. These were the customers Clint despised most. They often appeared around noon, during the café’s busiest times. This specific group of people typically brought a book or an electronic reading device. After ordering something, typically a drink in the largest size available, they would plant themselves along the window seats. As the rest of their clientele moved in and out according to their personal schedules, these people stayed for hours at a time, simply reading. Clint found such behavior odd and wondered if they had families or jobs. Despite how their constant presence annoyed him, Clint liked to use these people as sources of amusement in the dull hours of the day.  
      
The last straggler of the day had been quite interesting indeed. He was a man of odd habits. Clint noticed how he swiveled in his chair periodically, but always made sure to keep his nose buried in his book. Though it was hard to see his face, Clint could tell the man smiled to himself often by the crinkles around his eyes.  
      
He wondered what was so exciting in the book that could cause the man to react in such a way. Before the after-work rush hit, Clint created a hobby of constructing a plot to go with the man’s actions. A hand clench signified a fight between a female protagonist and her romantic interest; a shake of his head indicated a flawed piece of character logic, while an amused one was the narrator making a sarcastic quip about the characters.  
      
With nothing else to entertain him with, besides the monotony of brewing coffee and taking orders, Clint amused himself until the clock ticked dangerously towards closing time. As soon as the last to-go orders were fulfilled, Steve approached the man –which Clint was forever thankful for; he hated confronting customers – and politely asked him to leave. The man complied pleasantly, and left with his eyes still swimming in words. With Clint’s source of entertainment gone, he focused on the task of closing the café, now with the prospect of going home to look forward to.   
      
Outside, the traffic was at its worst, lines of yellow cabs passed endlessly beyond the windows. It was particularly crowded that day, and people swarmed in the streets. There was a specific direction to the crowd, and the whole of them drifted towards the park across the street.   
      
In the darkness that had fallen, Clint could make out a symphony of lights beyond the trees that sheltered the middle of the park. They were colorful, in vibrant hues of red and gold that danced in the distance. From the slight pulsing tremor in the floor, it was apparent to Clint that there was music playing amid the source of lights. As he diligently counted the money in the register, Clint distantly remembered hearing about the annual Banner University Carnival coming up. He never cared to remember the exact date, but the attraction occurring past the windows of the Café Americano could only have been it. Clint merely tried to block out the cacophony of the distant music mixed with car horns and his boss’s vintage swing tunes.   
       
Steve, on the other hand, had managed to separate the beat from the discordant melody and internalize it. As he cleaned the machines, his foot could be seen tapping rhythmically away on the wooden floor. Clint ignored him, and created his own song with the rustle of money and clink of change. He moved mechanically, like a robot, until he heard an unfamiliar sound.  
        
Instead of the typical ring of the door, which should not have gone off at all because they had already closed, there was an insistent rapping on the glass panes of the window. Clint looked up to see the figure of a woman highlighted by the light spilling out from the café.  
       
Steve had noticed the sound too. With a jump and a smile, he hurried to the door. “Peggy! I did not expect to see you for another twenty minutes,” he said as he held the door open for her.  
      
“There wasn’t that much work today. My boss let me off early,” she said. Her voice rang slightly when mentioning her boss, as if it was an unfamiliar title for her to say. Steve nodded, seemingly unfazed by her unusual tone. Clint could not help but wonder at the implication behind her words.  
      
He had met Peggy before, and even if he had not, Steve would have mentioned her enough to create a suitable picture of her. Not long after he had met the skinny man, did he begin to paint images of her. He slipped it into conversation casually, as if everyone knew who she was and could understand his inside joke. Based on his statements, perhaps everyone should know her. He spoke with utmost reverence about her, in a way that would cause romance novelists to envy such verbal poetry.  
      
When she had finally walked into the Café Americano one day, Clint had finally been able to compare the woman to Steve’s descriptions. He certainly did not exaggerate.  
      
Peggy was the catch of the year. Possessing a unique balance of elegance and fire, she managed to capture the attention of everyone around her. In a strange twist of fate, she resembled a model from a 50’s beauty magazine and even dressed to match. Her hair was twisted into pin curls that glowed warmly against her pale skin, and her clothes were styled for office business. Paired with Steve’s penchant for years long past, the couple seemed to be plucked out of time.  
      
Her voice contained a hint of a British accent, as if it had worn away over years of living in the states. Contrasted with Steve’s incredible patriotism, Clint found this very amusing.  
      
Peggy moved serenely to sit down at one of the bar tables. Steve accepted her coat, which was laid across the back of her chair. His voice was light, “We’re almost done closing. It will only be a little bit.”  
      
She nodded as Steve slipped into the backroom. She balanced perfectly on the stool without any hint of a slouching habit that was present in most people. The pointed front of her heels, balanced delicately on the stool’s support rungs, looked positively lethal. Clint, realizing he was staring at them, directed his eyes to hers. “Hey, Peggy,” he tried.  
      
“Hello, Clint,” her voice was smooth, “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. You’re usually too busy making coffee whenever I come in here.”  
       
Clint shrugged, “It’s my job.”  
       
She seemed nonplussed by his response, and followed it up with a question she asked every time she saw him. “How has Steve been?”  
       
“He’s too happy all the time.”  
       
Her laugh was light, “And yet he manages to make a spot for himself in everyone’s lives. I don’t believe I’ve ever met someone who dislikes his charm,” she looked knowingly at him, “Even you Clint.”  
       
He rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s just my boss.”  
       
“If he was just your boss, you would have left this job for a better one a long time ago.”  
       
Before he could respond, Steve poked his head out of the doorway, “Are you two talking bad about me? You know how I feel about gossip.”  
   
“Yes, it’s the root of all drama,” Peggy waved a hand dismissively, “Whatever could you need back there?”  
   
“It’s a mess back here. No idea why,” he looked pointedly at Clint, “Someone has to clean it.”  
   
Clint’s tone was nonchalant, “He’s exaggerating.”  
   
His boss’s head disappeared from the doorway, only to reappear again a moment later, “Oh, Peggy, would you like any coffee?”  
   
“No thanks, Steve. One of my coworkers brought some to the office today,” she replied.  
   
Clint sat silently for a moment. Steve could be heard moving things in the back, and Peggy had pulled out a book, which was quite fitting for the setting. Throwing the wet rag over his shoulder, Clint walked to the backroom. On his way, Steve emerged, devoid of his apron. He said something to Peggy, but Clint moved out of earshot before he could hear anything.  
   
Despite Steve’s claim, the room was not that messy. The washbasin was free from dishes, and the countertops were relatively uncluttered. There were plenty of supply boxes, though, pressed to one corner of the room. This must have been what caused Steve to deem the room unclean. The cardboard stacks were placed neatly, even if they were not labeled and organized exactly how his boss would have liked.  
Clint deposited the rag in the industrial sized washbasin, and his apron in the employee locker pressed to wall. As he picked up his wallet and phone, light footsteps alerted him to Steve’s presence. He turned around to see the skinny man standing awkwardly in middle of the room. Clint said nothing and waited for the other to speak.  
Steve’s eyes shifted around the room. “Clint, are you, uh, doing anything tonight?” he asked. He shook his head.  
“Well, I wanted to ask,” his voice seemed to regain its confidence again, “if you would like to come with me and Peggy to the movies?”  
The awkwardness had transferred to Clint. He stood silently, at a loss for a response. Steve seemed to notice his apprehension. Quickly, he tried to clarify, “Only if you want to of course.” After a moment, he added, “I just feel like you don’t get out to much.” Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded like a judgment, but Steve’s voice only held promise of good intentions.  
Still unsure of whether he wanted to take Steve up on his offer, Clint wandered into the front of the shop. The thought lingered in the back of his mind that if he slinked away, he could avoid this social situation.  
Peggy, however, would not let such a thing happen. At the first sight of him, she asked, “Are you joining us tonight, Clint?”  
He stopped in his tracks and looked between the couple: Steve stuck in the doorway and Peggy on the stool. Such an expression of hope filled Steve’s face that Clint almost felt he could not refuse. Peggy’s statement from earlier floated into his mind, “I don’t believe I’ve ever met someone who dislikes his charm. Even you Clint.”  
He ran a hand through his hair in thought, before he finally said, “Sure, I’ll go.”  
Peggy and Steve both seemed delighted by his response. Clint patted his pockets to ensure he had all of his belongings. It would not be the first time he had forgotten something at work. It did not happen often, but it usually ended up with Steve appearing at his apartment with the object in question and Clint with a begrudging thanks. After his brief check, the trio stepped out into the crowds filling the sidewalks. They were still unusually crowded because of the attraction in the park. As they left, Clint almost found it sad when Steve turned off the bright lights of the shop and all the vibrant colors faded away with it.  
The night was cold, and snowflakes fluttered down just like earlier that morning. Steve and Peggy led the way, going against the flow of the crowd to get to the theater across Downing Street. It was modeled after older times, with yellow stone architecture that complemented its Broadway-like signs perfectly. Clint was not sure what movie they were even seeing until Steve handed him his ticket. The small print said “Divergent.” He was pleasantly surprised with the choice; though he did not know much about it, it was certainly better than a chic flick.  
Steve insisted on being too generous. Though the concession lines were long, he repeatedly asked if either Clint or Peggy wanted something. She refused solidly, and Steve gave up after several tries, leaving him to pester Clint.  
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?”  
“Yes, Steve, I’m sure. Just sit down and enjoy the movie.”  
   
Clint was quite surprised with the movie itself. He immediately realized it followed the dystopian theme, but found the mix of action and suspense to be quite enjoyable.  
Peggy joined him on this viewpoint. “That was cool. It was unique and unlike every other action movie. What did you think of it, Steve?”  
In the bright light of the theater after the movie, Steve’s face was slightly pale. “It was terrible what they did to the innocent of Abnegation,” his voice rose slightly higher in indignation, “And it was against the will of the Dauntless to do the killing.”  
   
Peggy tilted her head in concern and her voice softened. “It is terrible,” she placed a hand on Steve’s arm. He stared at it blankly, with a faraway look in his eyes. Clint was taken aback that the movie had affected him so much; never before had he seen an expression like that on Steve’s face.  
They sat still like that, while the rest of the movie-goers had filed out. Clint, feeling awkward, decided to do the same. In the lobby, he parked himself in front of the movie posters and observed them as he waited. Many were for children, and depicted wild stories full of color, magic, and animals. Most others were cheesy romances.  
It took several minutes before Steve and Peggy emerged from the theater. There did not seem to be anything outwardly wrong, but Steve had seemed to lose his happy glow. Peggy quickly offered a solution for all of them.  
“Its still early. Would you guys like to do something else? There’s a carnival at the park right now.” Steve seemed to perk up at the mention of it.  
“Actually, that sounds like fun,” he said.  
Peggy turned to Clint, “Would you like to come?”  
It surprisingly did not take long for him to respond. He shrugged his shoulders, “Sure, why not?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now Clint has hung out with Steve and Peggy a little bit. More friendship to come in the next chapter.  
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	3. The Banner University Carnival

    The carnival was just as bubbly as Clint expected. The thick ring of trees that edged the park gradually opened up into a colorful world of ever-changing pictures. The carnival was enclosed by striped walls, forcing visitors to funnel through the entrance.  
 

     The letters decorating the large sign that floated above the gate shimmered and shone as if made of precious stone. They boldly declared, “Welcome to the Banner University Carnival.” In smaller letters underneath, it stated, “Brought to in part by Stark Industries.” As they walked up, small fireworks burst out of the sign, creating fizzles of color that turned into bubbles that drifted into the sky.  
 

     “See that?” Peggy said, “This carnival has some of the most up-to-date technology in the world.”  
 

     Clint was pulling out his wallet to pay for a ticket when he noticed the lack of ticket booths. An employee dressed in the loudest pair of pants he had ever seen greeted him happily, “Enjoy your time at the Banner University Carnival.” The smiling man ushered them inside. With only a few steps in, Clint could already see crazy things happening all around him.  
 

     “If all of this technology is state of the art, how come there is no entry fee? Surely the university can’t afford all of this.”  
 

     Peggy shrugged her shoulders, “The news has been trying to figure that out since the carnival started. Neither the principal of the college nor the head of Stark Industries will say anything.”  
 

     Every nook and cranny of the carnival was filled with something. Colors flashed everywhere and the music Clint heard earlier was drifting from another part of the event. A large ride in the center of the carnival spun and twisted in gravity defying ways. His head almost swam from the visual display that was presented to it.   
 

     Steve and Peggy led the way. They meandered aimlessly, taking the time to marvel at the sights within the carnival.  
 

     “I haven’t been to a carnival in a while,” Steve said. His voice swelled with nostalgia. “Look at how different it is!” With a gesture to the sky, he directed their attention to a few figures gliding through the air. Possessing small wings, they swooped and spun to the cheers of bystanders below. Once, when they dive-bombed close to the ground, Clint could see them flicker, giving away the fact that they were holograms.  
 

     Steve was particularly drawn to the mirrors near the fun house. Instead of just warping the image, they moved on their own. Clint’s did an Irish jig, while Steve’s was particularly mischievous. It copied his movements until he looked away, then the image would began to flail around until Steve looked back. He stared at it quizzically forever.  
 

    “Guys, its not moving. Yours' move, but not mine,” he pleaded. His eyes were wide with desperate confusion.  
 

     Peggy held back a snicker, “Your’s moves too. Its dancing right now.”  
 

     Steve swiveled instantly, but the image stopped its motion as soon as he looked at it. Clint and Peggy could not hold back their giggles. Steve resumed his staring. Underneath his breath he muttered, “All of this new technology…”  
 

     Peggy was just about to pull him away from the mirror, when the image stuck its tongue out at him. Steve reeled back in surprise.   
 

     “Come on,” Peggy urged with a smile.  
 

     Their wandering brought them to one of the more classic carnival games. It was composed of multiple rounds with a ball toss, dart throwing, and even archery.  
 

     Steve led them to it. “Do you want to compete?” he asked. Peggy smirked with a challenge to Clint. He could not pass up this opportunity.  
 

     The employee who ran the game was elderly, but he smiled pleasantly at them. “This game has stages. First, you have three tries knock down a stack of cans. Then, you have to pop five balloons with seven darts.  Finally, if you can complete both these tasks, you have to shoot as close to the bulls-eye as possible with the bow. Which one of you can outlast the others?”  
 

     Peggy went first, mostly because Steve refused to go before a lady. Clint found it admirable. It only took her one shot to knock down the stack of cans.  
 

     Clint did not have such skill. His first throw overshot the cans, and his second one only knocked down the top one. With Peggy smirking away, he threw his last shot in contempt for her. It managed to topple the rest. He crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow as if to say, “I can match your level.”  
 

     Steve was not quite as lucky. His first throw was incredibly off, and his second one missed by a foot. Peggy began to cheer him on, “You can do it, Steve.”  
 

     Clint even joined in, “You got this.”  
 

     Despite their support, his last throw did not make the cut. It knocked them down, but left one spinning precariously on its edge. The group held their breath before it finally rattled to a stop standing up.  
 

     Peggy patted him on the back, “Not everyone’s good at throwing.”  
 

     “Unfortunately, the blond gentleman is out,” the game manager declared. He gestured dramatically to Peggy and Clint, “Now, it is a battle between the two of you, in the dart throwing contest.”  
 

     Amused by the old man’s antics, they stepped up to the counter, which was set up for two people at once. With a nod to each other, they began at the same time. Immediately, the sound of popping balloons filled the air.  
 

     Peggy finished quickly, popping six balloons with only one dart missing. Clint’s first dart had gone astray, but he improved right after. He did not miss another balloon until his sixth dart. With Peggy and Clint watching behind him, his last dart impaled his fifth balloon, just enough to let him pass.  
 

     The man belted out another grandiose explanation of the events, but Clint was too busy admiring the bow for the last segment than to pay attention to what he was saying. Peggy glared at him defiantly. Clint kept his face neutral.  
 

     Simultaneously, they drew their bows and locked their arrows into place. Peggy winked at him, before focusing and letting her arrow fly free. It landed on the edge of the bulls-eye, just between the center and the inside ring.   
 

     “Beat that, barista,” she taunted. Resisting the childish urge to stick his tongue out at her, Clint pulled his bow back expertly. Not even bothering to look at the target, he let go of the arrow, and it sailed straight into the center of the bulls-eye. Both of his spectator’s jaws dropped.  
 

     “That was amazing, Clint. Where did you learn to shoot a bow like that?” Steve exclaimed.  
 

     Clint shrugged. “It was an old childhood hobby. A pointless skill really.”  
 

     “Are you kidding me?” Peggy interrupted, “That’s really cool. Some people make professions out of that.”  
 

     Clint scoffed, “Like what?”  
 

     “How about deer hunting?” Steve suggested.  
 

     The game manager laughed lightly, “Well, young man, you’re the winner. And because you hit the bulls-eye dead center, you get the grand prize.”  
 

     “Prize? Oh, I don’t need a-” Clint was interrupted by a large wall of fluff in his face. He could hear Peggy and Steve’s roaring laughter. Pulling the soft object that was obstructing his vision out of his face, he could tell that it was a giant panda bear plush toy. In its paws, it held a small lollipop for added cuteness.  
 

     Steve snickered, “I didn’t know you liked pandas, Clint.”  
 

     “Shut up, Steve.” Desperately trying to rid the hunk of fluff from his presence, he turned to Peggy. “Here. I’m sure you would like this more than me.”  
 

     Peggy shook her head. “Oh no, Clint. I am a grown woman. Stuffed animals are below my age group.”  
 

     He tried again, but his companions refused to rid him of the adorable abomination. With no other option left, it found its place under Clint’s chin, captured by a death grip. Its cute face stood out against his fuming expression.  
 

     “You look like an upset hedgehog.”  
 

     “I said, shut up, Steve.”  
 

     As they explored the carnival, Clint felt eyes on him because of his stuffed buddy. The visitors, who were mostly in the same age group as them because of the later time, gave him odd looks for holding a stuffed animal. Clint tried his best to ignore them, until a few punks would not let it rest.  
 

     It was by the high striker, the classic carnival game that always attracted macho men who are as strong as they are dumb. They had been watching a procession of people approach the attraction with varying degrees of success, when a large brute bumped into Clint.  
 

     The man stumbled back as if surprised by his presence. His oily face quickly changed from surprise to derision with one look at the toy in Clint’s arms. He sneered to his equally disgusting friends, “Look what we got here. It’s a biff.” Clint tried to ignore him.  
 

     “Hey, buddy, where’d you get it? A little girl’s tea party?” He and his friends burst out laughing.  
 

     Clint snapped, “Where’d you get all of the oil on your face? I’m assuming from the pizza you pigged out on.”  
 

     The other stepped into his personal space. “What did you say to me?” The bulky guy resembled a bear compared to Clint’s stouter frame. He instantly regretted opening his mouth, but he had little patience for men like him.  
 

    Their verbal scuffle had easily captured the attention of his companions. He could hear Steve muttering something under his breath, ripe with anger. Before Clint could fire his own retort, Peggy stepped up.  
 

    “Nothing you would understand,” her collected voice managed not to sound childish, “Now how about you go pick on someone of your intelligence?”  
 

     The man’s expression twisted into something amused and feral. He shifted his weight in order to learn slightly over her, “And just what is a lovely chic hanging out with these two goofballs for?”  
 

    Steve tensed up and stepped forward. Peggy beat him to the punch, “For the simple fact that they are gentlemen. Now please leave us alone.”  
 

     “I got a better idea. How about you ditch the dweebs, and hang out with me? I’m sure you’ll have a lot better time with a real man.”  
 

     Steve stood defensively in front of Peggy. “She isn’t interested. She asked you to leave her alone. Please comply with her wishes.” Despite the friendly note in his voice, Clint could see the tension in Steve’s thin neck.  
 

     “Was I talking to you?” the man gripped the collar of Steve’s button up shirt. His entire presence instantly grew threatening.  
 

     Steve, despite his clear disadvantage, did not back down. He stared with ferocity at the man. With the atmosphere going from zero to a hundred in one second, Clint expected to see a punch being thrown any moment. People had begun watching their scuffle and muttering under their breath. Clint was just about to pull them apart – or at least attempt since he did not know how strong the big guy was – when a loud clang rang through the air.  
 

     Peggy had pushed her way to the front of the high striker line in the moment Steve was threatened. As everyone turned around at the loud noise, the ball could be seen falling back down to its place at the bottom of the high striker. Peggy stood with the hammer held at the ready. “Let him go or the next thing I hit will be your face.” Her voice was deadly calm and her stare was petrifying. 

    With the threat of an enraged Peggy, and the carnival employees who had begun moving in to break up the fight, the man instantly realized his mistake. He let go of Steve’s collar and backed away with his hands up. His eyes were wide with disbelief at her. “You’re crazy,” he muttered before running off with his friends.   
 

     “Thanks,” Peggy said as she handed the hammer back to the game manager. He accepted it in silence. Everybody else who had been watching them faded into murmurs and moved on. Peggy lightly wrapped her arms around Steve, as if worried he was injured. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”  
 

    He placed a reassuring hand on her hair, “Thanks for being a one-in-a-million girl. Seriously, you beat half the men who tried that game.” She giggled lightly. They both turned to Clint, who was still standing there with the panda clutched in his arms.  
 

     “Come on, Papa Bear, lets go somewhere else,” Steve said. Clint rolled his eyes.  
 

     “There’s the giant ride we saw when we were coming in. How about we go on that?” Peggy suggested.  
 

     Clint shrugged his shoulders, “Sure.”  
 

     They all began walking to the main attraction of the carnival, located within the center of everything. Along the way, they were entertained by many side attractions. Holograms roamed about, mini fireworks exploded everywhere, and there were plenty of classic carnival performers.  
 

     Clint had been catching up to Steve and Peggy, who had moved ahead to see an acrobat perform incredible stunts, when he accidentally ran into a child. He had been so focused on his destination that he had not been aware of the people around him, and the child’s subsequent aimless energy led to their collision.  
 

     Clint was hardly affected. Though he was not very tall, he was sturdily built, and he absorbed the small force colliding into his legs quite easily. The small child, however, did not have such luck. With a cry of surprise, she was sent sprawling backward onto the ground. After a moment of disorientation, her eyes welled up with tears.  
 

     Clint faltered, unsure of what to do. The little girl looked up at him with large brown eyes and guilt overwhelmed him. He kneeled awkwardly as if afraid any sudden movements would scare her.   
 

     “Are you okay?” he asked. She sniffed loudly.  
 

     Clint looked around for her parents. None of the people milling about looked like they were missing a child. “Don’t cry,” he implored. He fumbled with his hands, “Here, um, take this.”  
 

     The little girl instantly opened her arms to accept the stuffed panda. She squeezed it tightly and buried her face in it. “See? Mr. Bear is here for you. He’s soft isn’t he?” She nodded.  
 

     “Are you feeling better?” She nodded again. “How about we find your parents?”  
 

     Her eyes peered up at him from behind the fluff. “Okay,” she said. She clambered to her feet with the panda still clutched tightly to her chest.  
 

     Clint surveyed the area, “Do you see your parents?” She remained silent for a while, only to burst out in a smile. “Mommy! Daddy!” she cried, and sprinted to a young couple by the pie throwing game.  
 

     She clung to the leg of her mother, pointing excitedly in Clint’s direction. Even over a distance, he could hear her high voice, “Mommy, he helped me after I fell. He gave me this!”  
 

     The mother’s face went through several different expressions. She shifted between shock, fear, and relief almost instantaneously. She mouthed, “Thank you,” to Clint.  
 

     He nodded in acceptance to her. When he turned around, he saw Peggy had looked away from the performer and was smirking at him. “What?” he asked as he walked up.  
 

     “Nothing. Just…you would be a good father,” she said. 

     Clint blinked in surprise at her statement. “Why would you say that?”  
   

     “Because you’re good with kids.” He just shrugged his shoulders. “By the way, how has the agency been? Any progress with them lately?”  
 

     He swallowed awkwardly. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Before she could try to pursue the topic, the crowd erupted into cheers for the performer and her attention was shifted.   
 

     After spending a few more minutes watching the acrobat do backbends and flips, they continued walking. As they neared the main ride of the carnival, they could hear the shrieks of terrified riders on it. It was a large ride, with a ring of seats attached to an arm that rotated and spun through the air. The sign boldly called it the “Twister Extreme.”  
 

     Steve visibly paled as they drew closer. “Are you sure you want to go on this ride?”  
 

     Peggy and Clint were both enthusiastic about it. “Yeah,” they answered.  
 

     Steve swallowed, “Okay.”  
 

     “Let’s go!” Peggy said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had to be split...again. I just keep on surprising myself with the amount of words I have for this story. Hopefully you liked it, and in the next chapter, Clint's adventures at this carnival will be continued!
> 
> Kudos and feedback are greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading my fic!


	4. Dr. Banner's Appearance

    The Twister Extreme was just as mind-boggling as it promised. From the very start, their group had mixed feelings about it. As they waited in line, a prominent warning board listed all of the rules for the ride. 

     “No pregnant women allowed, and no small children. If you possess any significant health problems such as heart problems or high blood pressure, ride at your own risk,” Steve voice rose in alarm, “Guys, are you sure this is safe?”  
 

     Peggy placed her hand on his shoulder, “Steve, this is state-of-the-art technology, you’ll be fine.”  
 

     “But I have plenty of health problems. My body certainly isn’t on par with everyone else’s.”  
 

     “You’re stronger than you think. Besides, it’s not like you have a history of heart attacks or anything,” Her voice turned serious for a moment, “If you really don’t want to ride this, its okay.”  
 

     Steve looked up again at the monstrous ride. A mix of terrified screams and shouts of joy floated towards them. “No, I think I can do this.”  
 

     He regained his composure, and only seemed to falter when the employees began securing everyone in. Peggy swung her feet as she waited, obviously excited. Clint, on the other hand, preferred not to act so giddy, despite his happiness.   
 

     As soon as they launched up into the sky, his world exploded into a variety of sensations. The feeling of weightlessness struck him, followed immediately by the chilling sensation of his stomach bottoming out. He was dimly aware of other people screaming, and he thought he could pick out Peggy’s excited shrieks and Steve’s mutters of terror from the mix.  
 

     Wind whipped about his face, bitingly cold from the small clumps of snowflakes still floating around. The ride spun Clint and his fellow riders in multiple different directions so that they lost sense of the ground’s direction. The view of the carnival turned into a swirling miasma of color.  
 When the ride finally came to a stop safely on the ground, he finally became aware of a grin stretching across his face. Peggy shot a knowing look at him as they stood up shakily. He was about to cross his arms and frown for a futile cover, until Steve’s face turned green and he took off running.  
 

     Peggy sent a worried expression Clint’s way, and disappeared in hot pursuit of him. Clint stood in surprise for a moment, and followed them. They had not gone far; Steve had run to a nearby trash can which was now filled with the remains of his last meal.  
 

     “Are you okay?” he asked as he approached.    
 

     Steve, still slightly pale, nodded. “That ride was just too much for my insides to handle.”  
 

     “I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t think you would get sick,” Peggy apologized.  
 

     He waved his hand dismissively, “No, its okay. Though, can we not do anything crazy for a while? And can I get some mints?”  
 

     “Of course,” She handed him a small blue tin she had fished out from her bag, “And that’s fine. What would you like to do?”  
 

     “I don’t know. We’ve seen a lot of this place already.”  
 

     “How about the Ferris wheel?” Clint suggested. “You haven’t been on that yet.”  
 

     Steve nodded. “Nice and calm, that’s a good plan. Are you up for it, Peggy?” His eyebrows lifted in a vague attempt at a joke.  
 

     “Always,” She tilted her chin up defiantly, “Wasn’t it on the east side?”  
 

     They turned to see the top of it looming over the rest of the carnival on the east side like she  had said. They moved slowly to their destination because Peggy was still concerned about Steve’s health. When they began boarding the surprisingly uncrowded Ferris wheel, Steve and Peggy were surprised by Clint’s refusal to board.  
 

     “What’s wrong?” Steve asked in concern, “Are you afraid of heights?”  
 

     He chuckled at the thought of it, “No, I actually quite like heights. Just…you two have fun. I’ll meet up with you when you are done.”  
 

     Once his companions had begun their circular ascent, Clint backed off to survey the sights of the carnival. He found a bench where he could relax during his observations.  
 

     The crowd had lessened considerably since they had arrived. Mostly young adults remained, and it was rare to see a kid with his parents. He sat still, enjoying the night atmosphere, when a man approached him.  
 

     He was an employee, dressed in an outlandish coat with split tails and a top hat. A smart bow tie complemented his striped shirt. A bundle of balloons of all shapes and sizes were tied to his wrist. A small case filled with unused balloons clung to his hip.  
 

     “Would you like a balloon?” he asked. He was older than most of the other employees, who were all in a sprightly college age.  
 

     Clint looked around uncomfortably, “Um, no thanks.”

      The other was unrifled, “Would you mind if I sat here?”  
 

     He eyed the balloon seller warily. He acquiesced and motioned towards the space next to him. The bench creaked slightly as the man sat down. He remained silent, and Clint felt overwhelmed by awkwardness. He ran his hand through his hair, and rifled through his mind for tension breakers. The man spoke up suddenly, “How have you been enjoying the carnival?”  
 

     Clint looked oddly at the man, “Its nice. Quite a lot of interesting things to see here.”  
 

     The man scoffed slightly, “That’s not what I meant. I want to know how you feel.” 

     “Why?” he narrowed his eyes.  
 

     “Because how you feel matters. What do you think is the purpose of a carnival?”  
 

     Clint thought for a moment, “Carnivals are for children. They’re a source of entertainment for them.”  
 

     “Not just children. The point of a carnival is to bring happiness to people who may not have any.”  
 Clint subsided into silence. He was unsure what the man was trying to say. Unable to keep the question inside, he said, “Who are you anyways?”  
 

     A small smile crept onto the man’s face. He offered a hand, “Dr. Banner. But you can call me Bruce.”  
 

     He shook his hand in disbelief. “Wait, do you mean Dr. Banner, as in the founder of Banner University?”  
 

     Bruce shrugged, “Don’t make it seem like I’m some important person.”  
 

     Clint sat without a word after the man’s quiet rebuttal. Confused by the man’s behavior, he tried to change the topic, “So how do you get all of the technology for this place? It must be very expensive.”  
 

     The man sent him a sly smile, “You’re not a reporter, are you?”  
 

     Clint patted his shirt and upturned his pockets to show he had no hidden recording devices, “No.”  
 

     Bruce looked off into the distance, “I have a bit of history with Tony Stark, the owner of Stark Industries. I wouldn’t necessarily use the term, but you could consider us friends.” He gestured to the attractions around them, “When I told him about this venture of mine, I received an email the next day explaining I would have his full cooperation in the planning of this. I would say he got a little carried away, but the public loves it, and that’s what’s important.”  
 

     Clint’s mouth formed the shape of an “oh.” Another awkward pause was inevitable, but Bruce remedied it. He asked innocently, “Are you here with any friends?”  
 

     Up in the Ferris wheel, Clint could see the small silhouettes of Peggy and Steve. He pointed to their carriage, which was nearing the end of its rotation. “They’re up there right now.”  
 

     “Have they enjoyed themselves as well?” the other asked.  
 

     “Yeah,” Clint admitted, “Carnivals are a bit more their thing.”  
 

     Bruce reached into the case on his hip, pulling out a few balloons. They emitted high-pitched squeaks as he stretched them. “What would you like?” he asked.  
 

     “Um, I said I didn’t want one.”  
 

     “That’s besides the point.”  
 

     Clint slapped his leg in defeat. “Fine, I’ll take a bow and arrow.” Bruce smiled, and he almost thought he was joking. It was not until he nimbly began pulling the balloons into a familiar shape that he realized the man was perfectly serious. The colorful bow was plopped into his lap as soon as it was finished. He stared at it.  
 

     “Why did you give me this?” he questioned.  
 

     Bruce’s voice was serious, “Because people need happiness even if they don’t think they do. Have a wonderful night.” He left without another word, and Clint was left clutching the balloon. He shook his head in confusion. Steve and Peggy approached shortly.  
 

     Steve was the first to call out his new addition, “Where did you get the bow, Clint?”  
 

     He played it off, as though someone important had not just talked to him: "Some balloon seller gave it to me. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

     “Well, it seems to have replaced your panda,” Peggy said. “Steve’s hungry.”

     “Apparently throwing up really empties your stomach,” Steve added.  
  

     “So I’m going to get him some food. Do you want anything?” Peggy asked.  
 

     There was a slight emptiness in his stomach. “You know what? I’d like some popcorn. Here I have some-”  
     

     “No need for your money, Clint,” she interrupted, “I’ve got it covered.” She disappeared in a flash. Steve took the open spot on the bench. They watched people as they passed their view. Many of the groups were silly girls spending a night out on the town.  
 

     Steve broke the comfortable silence, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.” He shifted awkwardly, “Now, I know its not really my business, but I have noticed since I’ve known you that you don’t get out much.”  
 

    Clint raised an eyebrow at him, “You mentioned this earlier.” 

     Steve coughed and continued, “And I have noticed you don’t give girls a chance.”

     His mouth fell open in surprise, “What are you talking about?”  
 

     “I saw how you were looking at that girl earlier today at work. Talking to one isn’t going to cause you any harm,” he suggested.  
 

     He scoffed, “And what do you know about girls?” Steve looked pointedly at him, and he realized just how ridiculous that sounded. Just look at Peggy. Steve was an asthmatic twig, and she was a beautiful fire that demanded attention. He rephrased his question, “What do you know about me and girls?”  
 

     “I’m not trying to claim I know anything, but maybe if you went on a few dates you wouldn’t be so grumpy all the time. Socializing is good for you. Perhaps you even need a feminine touch.”  
 

     Clint rolled his eyes, “Maybe I have more important things on my mind.”  
 

     A semblance of understanding passed between them. “It was merely a suggestion,” Steve said, “as a friend.”  
 

    He took in a breath, “You could be right, but now is not the time.”  
 

     Steve nodded. He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by Peggy bearing food. She handed Steve a hot dog, and Clint his popcorn. She herself had a pretzel.  
 

     “A hot dog?” Clint joked.  
 

     “It’s the classic American food,” Steve said defensively.  
 

     “Okay, well they should be closing soon,” Peggy said. “We should probably start leaving.”  
 

    “Sure,” Steve stood up, “Let’s start walking.”  
 

     Clint stood up to follow them. He turned around suddenly when he realized he left his balloon on the bench. Though he could care less, he could not bring himself to leave the inflatable plastic behind. As he spun, the popcorn in his bag tipped out and fell to the floor. He stared, disappointed, at the little remains left in the bottom.  
 

    Steve and Peggy’s laughter reached his ears. “Are you alright, Clint?” Peggy said jokingly. He huffed before breaking out into laughter with them.  
 

     Steve put his hand on his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.” In the distance, Clint saw the form of Dr. Banner talking animatedly to another group of visitors. He glanced momentarily at him, and tipped his hat in Clint’s direction.  
 

     His gaze returned to Steve and Peggy’s open expressions. He could not stop his smile and gestured to his boss and companion, “Yeah, I want to get some sleep tonight. I have to work at this guy’s place bright and early tomorrow.” Their group’s laughter was light and melodic amidst the happy chaos of the carnival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who makes an appearance, its our favorite quiet scientist, Bruce Banner!  
> On another note, this chapter is slightly shorter, but hopefully you enjoyed it nonetheless.  
> Thank you for reading this far into my fic! Kudos, bookmarks, and any feedback are greatly appreciated!


	5. A Familiar Intruder

     It was late by the time Clint got back to his apartment. He showered quickly, and even while he still emanated the fresh scent of water, the waves of sleep claimed him. It was a surprise he made it to his bed. 

     The next morning was an unwelcome hello from Mother Nature. The sunlight streamed persistently through the small window in his bedroom onto his slumbering form. With his efforts to remain in the land of dreams futile, Clint wearily opened his eyes. He recoiled like a snake under the light’s harshness, and he irritably trudged into the bathroom. 

     After a quick morning prep, he managed a look at the clock. Though his slow mind made him think it was early in the morning, the time spoke otherwise. With half of the morning gone, Clint plopped down onto his worn couch and attempted to watch some of his shows. He was caught up with Arrow, so he was forced to occupy his time with some other visual display. A show called Full House caught his attention. Though it was quite an oldie, Clint found himself overly fond of the show. It was working its way up to becoming his new guilty pleasure.

     Soon, the clock started ticking dangerously towards noon. His shift did not start until one, but walking through the winding streets of New York took time. Steve had told him many times that he could take a taxi or the subway, but Clint stoically refused. In all honesty, he could be known to penny pinch on things. 

     His walk to work was unenjoyable on a level more than usual. Without his morning coffee, since he did not have a coffee maker at his apartment, a raging headache had begun to bloom in his head. Furthermore, the New York sun had decided to show itself, today of all days, and became a magnifying glass to his head. 

     When he arrived, the upbeat setting of the café did not amuse him. Steve was at the forefront today, taking orders with ease. Clint could see Sam in the back, working busily away at espressos and macchiatos. It was robotic to don his work apron and take his place at the second register.

     With two people operating the counter, the lunch rush quickly died down. The loud buzz of the café faded into a quiet hum, and Clint sighed in relief. He was just about to relax with some cleaning – the menial task was often calming for him – when a large family entered the establishment. With a seemingly endless amount of kids, Clint joined Sam in the production of the liquid feast. 

     It was strangely quiet between them. Steve had not even gotten on his nerves with friendly chatter. Oddly, Clint mused, this was how they worked best. Sam and he were the laborers, who worked at any task without complaining. Skilled and fast, they completed jobs at an efficient rate. Steve had this unique property of being able to switch between the hard worker and the charismatic host. When paired with the gleaming unsociability of Clint and the steadfastness of Sam, Steve became the empathic connection between the customer and the café. Perhaps this was why the shop became so popular in the first place.

     Clint almost fell into a content bliss. Despite being constantly occupied, he had not needed to deal with clueless customers. That is, until one of the children from the large family retched on the floor and caused a subsequent chain of vomit from his companions. Clint had to fight off his irritation and the stench as he began the difficult task of decontaminating the sleek tile of the café. They had not even hit the after work rush yet, and already he was exhausted.

* * *

 

     The café was silent after hours. Sam had left mid-afternoon, since he had opened that day. Steve was off on a business venture; he was looking at a new brand of coffee beans. Without the customers and happiness from Steve, the place rang dead. Even the jukebox was not playing its classic tunes. 

     Clint cleaned the place without breaking the noiseless atmosphere. It was strange, but he often enjoyed the quiet of closing. It was his way to wind down from the ever-present noise in the café. Wielding a mop, he set about the task of ridding the floor from footprints and spills of coffee and the remnants of the children’s vomit he may have missed.

     Though he was usually able to keep focus well, his mind started dazing after so long. He shifted to autopilot, and little thought streamed into his head. The unexpected clatter that rang through the establishment subsequently made him jump out of his pants.

     With his heart racing, Clint listened intently, wondering if the sound was just his imagination. Quiet drifted through the café until interrupted by more clanging from the direction of the backroom. Clint turned around in unease as it faded to a murmur, but one that suspiciously told of human activity. 

     Readying his mop, Clint slowly crept behind the counter. “Steve? Is that you?” he questioned. He would not be surprised if his boss decided to turn up at the café after his meeting was over. A suspicious thought crept into his mind, “Sam? I swear if you’re pulling a prank on me I’m going to put laxatives in your coffee for a month.”

     No answer returned to him, so he slowly made his way into the backroom. The lights were dim, in an attempt of his to save power, making only vague shapes perceptible in the room. The air felt thick to him as he scanned his surroundings. Nothing seemed out of ordinary, and he was just about to turn on the lights for a closer inspection when a flutter of movement behind some boxes caught his attention. 

     He jerked back in alarm, and attempted to complete his previous action so he could better discern the misplaced being in the room. Upon seeing his sudden movement, the dark bundle leaped forward, and rushed at Clint. Feeling adrenaline coursing through his veins, Clint reacted on instinct, and the cleaning instrument he held made contact with another body. A distinct wet slap reached his ears, but the body continued its motion until it collided with him, sending them both to the floor. 

     Clint sat up with a groan. A fist had connected solidly with his ribs sometime during the fall and they now ached loudly. He struggled to breathe, and beside him he heard the frustrated groans of his attacker. He could not see much, just the bundle of darkness, and soon another jab hit his knee along with a distinct mumble that sounded like, “Idiot.” Curling away from the person, he located his dropped mop and stood up to bring light to the situation. 

     With the backroom illuminated, the mysterious person was now visible. Clothed in a baggy grey hoodie and plain jeans, the only defining characteristic of the girl was vibrant red hair that spilled from behind the hood covering her face. A scowl also shone smartly up at him from the floor.

     She stood up abruptly, brushing herself off rigidly. Her gaze felt cold and prepared despite the fact that he could not see her eyes. He held the mop threateningly, or at least as much as he could for a short man holding a housewife’s tool, “Who are you?”

     She crossed her arms, “Not important.” She turned and began walking around the backroom. Her movements were calculated, wary. 

     “Yes, it is,” He countered caustically, “Who are you and what are you doing sneaking into my work?”

     “Listen, Clint,” she stressed his name in a way that suggested he was the most moronic being on Earth, “I’m not here to cause trouble. Now back off.”

     Clint was shocked; his jaw dropped to show just such bewilderment. “Wait, how do you know my name?” He looked down to see if his name tag was on display – such a situation as this had happened often while manning the register – but it was not pinned to his chest like normal. He remembered now; he had taken off the tag along with his apron and put them in his locker once the café had closed.

     He gestured wildly in his confusion, until the flaming hair of the girl brought up a memory, nearly forgotten amid the rest of his interactions with customers. He pointed accusingly at her, “You! You’re the one who likes black coffee.”

     Clint could sense her eyes rolled 360 degrees in her head even if he could not see it. “Again, not important.” She continued her scout of the room, and now began to rifle between boxes and open cabinets. 

     He spluttered. “You know what? I’m calling the cops. They’ll deal with a hooligan like you.” He pulled his phone out to begin dialing the New York Police Department, when it was knocked out of his hand. “Hey!” He protested.

     She was straight to the point, “Listen, I need you to hide me.” 

     “And just why would I do that?”

     A frustrated growl escaped her throat, “Because there is a strange man that is going to attempt entering your establishment, and I need you to _hide me_.” 

     Clint was about to protest, his hand lifting to aid the effectiveness of his counter-argument, when a loud rapping sounded from the front of the café. The girl gasped beside him, and Clint’s move was instantaneous. He did not normally do things like this, but his nerves bounced under his skin and reduced his actions to ones of instinct. 

     “Come on,” he whispered, feeling the sudden need to be quiet, and dragged her to the employee locker. He opened it, shoved his stuff as much to the corners as possible and directed her to climb in. It was the size of one from a typical high school movie, so she fit easily inside. He closed the door and hastily locked it. She tried protesting to this, but he hissed to her the fact that it looked more authentic. Outside, the rapping was not relenting. 

     He ruffled his hair, and took a deep breath before emerging from the backroom. He left hastily, waving his arms in a feigned act of irritation, “Hey, stop, will ya? Its after hours, can’t you read the sign?” He really only noticed what the man actually looked like when he had nearly reached the door. 

     He had almost expected a young punk, adorned in piercings and ripped denim, trying to capture his attention to show off some new vandalism on his windows. The possibility of even a homeless man asking for food crossed his mind. Steve liked to offer them free coffee and a snack, such was his generosity. But the man standing outside the window was neither of these. 

     He was confusingly both large and small; the heavy winter coat draped over his shoulders could have easily made the man look larger than reality, but the darkness made it difficult to discern. His face was scraggly and half shaven, and when he saw Clint, he revealed yellow crooked teeth.   
He gestured politely to the door, as if hoping for a friendly conversation.

     Feeling he was entering the lion’s den, Clint carefully opened it so he could stand in the doorway and block the man’s entrance. “What do you want?” He really needed to work on his people skills. 

     “Can I speak with the manager?” The man questioned innocently.

     “First of all, it’s after hours. And second of all, he isn’t here. So I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

     The man seemed to deflate, and Clint wondered if he really was a random bystander who had happened to pop in on such a weird situation. It was all just a coincidence. The man added pleasantly, “Such a shame. Have you had a good day Mr. Clint?”

     Clint’s throat ran dry. He was not wearing his name tag. He glanced quickly down to make sure, only to find the pin gleaming brightly on his chest. His mind lagged for a few seconds until he remembered the redhead. She must have swiped it from his locker and pinned it on him before he had noticed. He held back a groan of frustration. “Excuse me?” he addressed the man.

     “Must have had a busy day,” he continued, “Anything unusual happen?”

     His mind instantly flicked to the entire situation he was dealing with right now: a redhead stuffed into his locker and a suspicious man who appeared at the oddest time. His voice decided to bottom out in sarcasm, “The most interesting thing that has happened to me all day is a random person keeping me from closing my store and going home.” He may not be the best on friendliness, but this quality often had the remarkable ability to deter people. 

     The man’s eyes narrowed. Clint almost wanted to take back what he had said because the man in front of him had suddenly turned into someone much more threatening. “Well then, I bid you good night Mr. Clint,” his voice was kind in all regards, but it did not match his expression. Such ambiguity sent a sharp spike of worry through Clint that did not leave until the man walked out of sight and disappeared down the street. He entered the café with a sigh of relief. His next objective floated into his mind: find out what was going on from his “guest.”

     He pulled the door to his locker open with surprising ferocity. He crossed his arms and steadily glared at the girl as she unfolded herself from inside the locker. “Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on? How did you even put my name tag on without me noticing? And why?”

     She ignored his first question, “The name tag makes you look like an actual employee, and you were too slow to notice. Oh, and you need to clean your locker, but thanks for the hiding place.”

     “I think the state of my locker is my own business, but you didn’t answer my question. I want answers.”

     She looked deadpan at him, and Clint realized her shrouded blue eyes were visible from this angle. “You don’t want them,” she said in a voice that almost sounded sorrowful.

     He pushed despite this, “I think I know what I want and do not want.” She adjusted her hoodie so none of her upper face could be seen. She moved to the door that led out to the alley next to the café. It was the route Clint often took to take out the garbage. It must have been how she got in. 

     “Hey,” he stepped forward as she put her hand on the doorknob, “Can you at least tell me your name? I mean, you know mine so…”

     She stopped silently, and looked over her shoulder at him. She did not speak for a while. “Natasha,” she said, and opened the door. 

     Clint tried following her, but found himself glued to the floor as she walked alone down the alley. He turned back into the building, left slightly in shock from the encounter. Suddenly, he slapped his forehead. “Idiot!” he cried out to himself. He pulled his phone angrily out of his pocket and dialed the NYPD. He could have just let a murderer walk out of his work unscathed; what was he thinking?

     The woman who answered his call spoke with an odd twinge of cheeriness in her voice that seemed out of place. “This is the New York Police Department, can I help you?”

     “Yes. Someone broke into my work.”

     “Has the place been robbed?”

     “No, but-“

     “Is there anyone hurt?” she interrupted.

     He shook his head even though she could not see it. “Look, someone broke in. They didn’t steal anything and nothing is damaged. I’m calling in to report it.”

     The woman sighed and the cheery note in her voice disappeared, “Can you describe the intruder for me?”

     “Umm…” Clint thought, “Really red hair, female. Blue eyes, I think. She wore baggy clothes and her hoodie covered her face.”

     “Are there any other ways you could describe this character to me?”

     “She said her name was Natasha.” He had to admit, he was proud of that obscure detail. 

     The woman on the end of the line had gone silent. Clint wondered if his comment was out of place, certainly not everyone knew the name of their attacker. Suddenly, she spoke up out of nowhere, “Alright, sir, we will be sending a representative to your location to take an account of the events. Where are you located?”

     “The Café Americano, but-“

     “Our agent will be there within half an hour, thank you for calling to report suspicious activity.” The line went dead. 

     Clint let the phone fall out of his hand and onto the counter of the café. The woman’s unexpected change of behavior had thrown him for a loop. Butterflies flitted about his intestines in worry. Taking a deep breath, he figured the only thing he could do was wait for the representative to appear.

* * *

  
     The NYPD member appeared faster than Clint had expected. Instead of thirty minutes, a sleek black car pulled up in front of the café around the fifteen-minute mark. The car was too sleek for a police car, and it lacked the lights and logo of the police department. Clint half expected the man to be another peculiar stranger like the one who had interrupted his encounter with the redhead earlier. It was not until he flashed a badge at him through the window that he accepted the man for the one he was waiting for. 

     He let the tall figure in, with his shock for the night still displayed throughout his entire demeanor. The man, on the other hand, appeared cool and confident as if he felt right at home standing in the middle of the retro café. He shook hands with Clint, “I am Agent Coulson. It seems as though you’ve had an interesting night.” He took a seat at one of the tables, and gestured towards the spot across from him. 

     Slightly curious about the “agent” title, Clint slid onto the stool awkwardly. He cleared his throat, “So, you’re supposed to be taking a report?”

     The balding man’s voice was level, “Yes, Mr. Barton.”

     Clint was about to question how he knew his last name - his name tag only had his first name - but thought better of it. The man was apart of the police department; he had connections. “I guess you could say that.”

     The agent flipped open a black folder he had brought with him. Official-looking documents were organized neatly inside. “On the phone with one of my coworkers you said a red-haired female broke into this establishment earlier and is now gone,” he gestured to the rest of the café. “Is that correct?”

     Clint felt a wave of formality wash over him, “Yes sir.”

     “And she told you her name was Natasha?”

     “Yes,” he confirmed. Coulson jotted down a few notes on one of the papers.  He inquired, “Did anything else unusual happen tonight?”

     “Well, she warned me that someone was going to come to the café. I thought she was bluffing, but a strange man did ask for my manager even though we were closed. I sent him away.”

     The pair of eyes opposite of him hardened. “What did this man look like?”

     Clint shrugged, “Heavy coat, unshaved, scraggly teeth. He looked suspicious, though a lot of people in New York do.”

     Coulson suddenly flipped the folder closed and stood up. “Well, Mr. Barton, I believe I have all the information I need.”

     Surprise drifted through Clint, “That’s it? Don’t you need to ask more questions?”

    The agent was nonchalant, “No. In this particular case, I have no more questions to ask.”

     “What about evidence or something? Shouldn’t you inspect the backroom where she broke in?”

     “No need,” was his simple reply. He was already making to leave.

     “Then what am I supposed to tell my manager? Aren’t there legalities that must be taken care of? I don’t plan on getting sued over something like this.”

     Coulson sent a small smile his way. “Do not worry about a thing, Mr. Barton. We have control of the situation.” With a mischievous expression, he walked out of the front door, and disappeared into his car of mystery. 

     Clint felt no more informed or in control of the situation than he did before. He stood flabbergasted still, until he shook his head. The dregs of fatigue were covering him, and Clint was suddenly hit by the desire to rest. He locked up quickly, being sure to double check every corner of the café for more intruders, and began his walk home. What he most wanted now was to plop down on his bed and let the craziness of his day give way to dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually cranked this chapter out in a couple of days. *cheer of happiness*  
> Natasha finally appears again, and now Agent Coulson has entered the picture! Hhm, what could their connection be...  
> If you enjoyed this, feel free to leave a comment etc. Thank you for reading!


	6. Jodie Moore

    The sensation of being watched was odd to experience while walking through the thick of New York. Of course, with all the people, there was always somebody glancing around to catch the minute actions of daily life that were meant to be secret. It was impossible to pick your nose without a girl sneering disdainfully from across the street. Removing a wedgie was nigh impossible without a crowd of spectators with cameras, ready to post the moment onto the internet. But the tingling feeling at the nape of his neck, as if eyes were following him, would not leave Clint that morning.  
 

     He was still tired from the day before; all the inexplicable craziness had drained him beyond the repair of one night’s sleep. Today was an important day, though, so Clint forced himself out of bed. His senses did not seem to fully awaken until a sudden feeling of self-consciousness washed over him.   
 

     Clint looked over his shoulder warily, half expecting a person to be breathing over his shoulder, but nothing seemed out of place. Only the pace of the city passed around him; citizens walking to and fro, and cabs running marathons all over the city.  
 

     The feeling persisted for the duration of two blocks, and this was when Clint began to worry. There was no one around him to be suspicious of, and the action of repeatedly looking over his shoulder gained odd looks from other people. It was not until the crowd had thinned for a moment did a specific man stand out from the masses. He was short and squatty, with a snub face as if he spent most of his time sneering at others. Clint was not sure why he garnered his attention, for there were no characteristics of his that spoke of ill will; he could easily be a disgruntled employee much like himself.  
 

     He was going to write off the sighting as a coincidence, until his frequent checks confirmed the man had stayed a consistent distance away from him for several more streets. With apprehension creeping into his heart, Clint hurried to his destination.  
 

     The bakery was packed at this time, due to the lunch crowd. Thanking the heavens that this was the case, Clint slipped quickly into the establishment amid the quaint bookworms, noisy tourists, and disturbed hipsters. Blending in was simple; compared to these other characters, he was ordinary. Clint used his camouflage to keep a keen eye on his surroundings and watched the large window of the bakery studiously. 

     The cashier must have been in a hurry, for the line moved much quicker than he had expected.  It was not long before she glared impatiently at him and unprofessionally popped her gum. He ordered in a hurry, bothered by both the suspicious character, who he seemed to have lost, and the impersonal employee.  

     The staff needed time to prepare his order, so Clint sat down in a plush little corner for to-go orders like his. Bouncing his leg was an uncontrollable side effect from his haywire nerves. For a moment, he thought his suspicions were misplaced, until the dark figure appeared outside the bakery. His heart leaped into his throat, and beat traitorously as the man looked the place up and down, appearing to others like an innocent tourist. Clint did not notice his hand had clenched in the fabric of his pants until the man moved on down the street. He relaxed with an exhale.   
 

     The cranky cashier called out his order shortly, all wrapped to go in a quaint paper bag with tasteful filigree on the side. He chose to loiter for a bit longer, pretending he was picking up napkins, just to be sure he was not being followed. The girl cleaning the countertops, a tall lanky one different than the cashier, began to send dirty looks his way, so he left to appease her. There was no need to be kicked out of a restaurant on a circumstantial fear.  
 

     It was not until he stepped out onto the sidewalk did he realize the time. A look at his watch told him it was nearing one o clock, much later than he wished. With his nerves flying into a panic again – _he was so late, he could not be late_ – Clint sprinted as best he could down the sidewalk. The weaving streams of people made it difficult, and Clint nearly bumped into someone once or twice.  
 

     He passed the university close to the Café Americano, ran past the sector of business buildings, and so on until he saw the official looking building in the distance. It was set apart from the rest, on its own structure and much squattier than its teetering counterparts, but it still remained an impressive building.  
 

     Clint slowed down as he ascended the whitewashed steps. He caught his breath, and attempted to calm his heart. He nervously looked his outfit up and down for sweat stains; he usually did not care for such behavior, but appearances were everything here. He had even worn a nice button up, which was now crinkled and frumpy from his spastic run.  
 

     Figuring no amount of fussing was going to change anything, Clint walked through the door into the refreshing coolness of the orphanage. The air was silent compared to the bustle of the city. Clint walked up to the front counter, cringing at the echoing pings his feet sent bouncing around the room. The clerk looked up at him with sharp, yet tired, eyes hidden behind acute spectacles, “How may I help you?”  
 

     “I’m here to see Jodie. Um, Jodie Moore.”  
 

     She began typing slowly on her keyboard. “Do you have an appointment?”  
 

     He tugged on his sleeve smartly. “I do. Every Saturday from noon to two. Ask Lance if you need more confirmation.”  
 

     Her grey eyes looked him up and down. She glanced behind her to the clock ticking obnoxiously on the wall. “You’re late,” she accused.  
 

     He ruffled his hair. “Yeah, I got into a bit of a jam on the way here today. I had to pick some stuff up too.” He gestured to the dainty bag in his hand.  
 

     “Anything contraband?” She held her hand out expectantly. Clint let the bag fall into her hands. She peered harshly at the contents inside.  
 

     “Just food. I always bring Jodie lunch.”

     She smacked her lips in boredom. More tapping on keys occurred. “Very well. She’ll be in room 202 now.”

     “Thank you.” He tipped his head at her and chose the corridor on the right as his path. Usually, an escort was required through the building, for child safety, but room 202 was always open to visitors. The only way to get there was through the office corridor, so there was no risk of people getting into the living quarters of the children unsupervised. 

     The hallway was just as empty as the lobby, fenced in by harsh lines and cold color. Clint often wondered who decorated the place, for their decisions were aesthetically terrible; as a place designed for kids, color was a requirement. It was not until he ventured deeper into the building, past the office rooms, did he begin to hear some semblance of youth. 

     Room 202 was one of the many common areas, where the children often gathered for indoor play and sociality. One of the current caretakers was standing in the doorway, for when visitors were to arrive. She was full of smiles that complemented her yellow hair perfectly.

     “Good afternoon,” she sang sweetly, “Who are you here to see?” Her gasp when Clint told her was barely hushed by her hand. “You’re him? She has been so upset. She didn’t think you were coming.”

     Pangs of guilt shot through Clint. He wrung his hands nervously as the woman double-checked her clipboard. Seeing his reservation on the page, she pulled him close and pointed Jodie out to him. “She’s right there. Hopefully seeing you will cheer her up.”

     The common area was cluttered with a multitude of things for the children at the orphanage to do. Tables with puzzles and coloring books broke up the majority of the floor. A plastic slide was pushed to the side and attracted a long line of kids that consistently replenished itself. A group of TVs and beanbags were also present, which were commandeered by the older kids. And in the corner, where the small library stood, Jodie was wrapped up in a blanket by herself, surrounded by cushions that were bigger than her. 

     Clint was cautious in approaching her. He could not see her face hidden behind the books, and hated to have disappointed her. He felt even more judged by the fact that most of the kids stopped what they were doing to stare at him like he was an outsider. He supposed he was, but the sight of jealousy on their faces only saddened his heart. He was not the only subject to these glares; a few other visitors in the room also received them as they devoted all their attention to a specific child. 

     He came to a stop a few feet in front of Jodie. She was impossibly small next to his standing figure, and from this angle, Clint could see the miserable look on her face. She did not even notice him. 

     With his chest tight, Clint kneeled. “Jodie?” His voice had softened to a tone he did not use often. Most people only thought he could speak in an irritated grumble. 

     Glistening blue eyes looked up at him. A frown widened into a gasp. “Clint!” she cried. The next moment she had tossed the book aside and hurled herself into him, nearly knocking him back onto the floor. Surprised by her reaction, he wrapped his arms around her.

     “I thought you weren’t going to come.” She pulled her head out from where it had been buried in his chest. Eyes that had been tight and watery now shone brightly. “But that’s okay, now you’re here.”

     “Yeah, I apologize for that. The crowds were crazy today. I had to run just to get here.” He pointed to the book carelessly strewn on the floor, “What were you reading?”

     Jodie picked it up in her small hands. “It’s The Giving Tree. I never read it before, and I’ve read a lot.”

     “Oh, yeah? What was your favorite part about it?” Clint implored curiously. 

     She stretched up on her tiptoes. “The tree, because she loves the boy.” She flipped through the pages absentmindedly, “I want to be the tree.”

     Clint’s smile hid a twinge of sadness. He wondered if she truly understood the message of the book. “I’m sure you’d make a great tree,” he said. “By the way, I brought us lunch.” He lifted the bag to show her. 

     She clapped her hands together in excitement. Looking beyond him sneakily, she said, “We’re not supposed to eat in here. Ms. Garner wouldn’t like it.”

     “Well then, young lady, where would you like to go?” Clint bowed his head in playful respect.

     “Oh, I know!” She gripped his spare hand and started pulling on it, “Let’s go outside.”

     Letting her drag him to his destination, they ended up in the courtyard outside room 202. Clint had glanced at the caretaker, apparently Ms. Garner, who nodded in approval at him. He was relieved that going outside without an employee watching like a hawk was permitted. He supposed they could still be seen form the outside anyways. 

     The weather was fair in the early afternoon. While mornings and nights were overtaken by the lasting chill of winter, the sun reached a high enough peak to heat the city to a pleasant warmth. The courtyard was well taken care of, with plenty of plants to fill it, which created beautiful rattling music as the wind blew subtly through the trees. While not overly fond of nature, Clint found himself relaxed when taking a seat at one of the benches under the shade of the trees. Jodie plopped down next to him, and began rifling through the bag of food he had brought. 

     “Here,” Clint pulled the different foods out of the bag. “I went to your favorite bakery.” The sandwich he gave to her – for the bakery specialized in breads, and by extension, sandwiches made out of that bread – was wrapped crisply in parchment. “Ham, lettuce, and mustard. Your favorite, right?”

     She screeched with glee, “Yes!” The sandwich was quickly unwrapped and began disappearing down her the young girl’s gullet. Clint ate his own turkey and ham sandwich slower. 

     They did not speak; both were occupied by the food in their hands. He had found such a thing weird at first, since adults he knew loved to make small talk over a meal, and had expected an even worse practice of this from an energetic seven year old. He was pleasantly surprised, then, when Jodie sat still and silent the first time Clint brought food for her. 

     He took the quiet moment to pick at an odd fact: there was no one else in the courtyard. It was not off limits, so the youth contained within room 202 could have easily spread into the inviting outdoors. It was a wonderful day too, which would have drawn an adolescent Clint like a moth to a light. He would have romped in the nature, and found it peculiar that no other child in room 202 had felt the draw of the fresh air. Though, admittedly, he had not been the average child. 

     Jodie’s appetite was ravenous like a typical seven year old, and she had finished the sandwich quickly. The water bottle Clint had brought for her soon became subject to her waves of fantasy. She tossed it up and down, catching it in her arms as if hugging it. An anthill near the base of the bench was soon drowned by its depths as well. 

     With the food spell broken, Clint started off with a basic question, “How has school been this week, Jodie?”

     Her answer was plain and distant, “Okay.”

     Clint tried again. Often, when she was focused on something, little else earned her attention. “What have you been learning about?”

     She turned to look at him, ignoring her gurgling victims below, “A lot of things. So many that I can’t remember. What do you learn about?”

     Clint chuckled, “I don’t learn, Jodie. I have a job. You know I make coffee for a living.”

     She plopped down onto the bench and stared into the distance, “But you got to learn something. Even if it you don’t go to school. Today, I learned the trees show love, and love is a good thing.”

     “I guess you’re right,” He bumped playfully into her side, “You know what? That’s what I learned. You’re a great teacher, Jodie.”

     “What’d you learn?” Her blue eyes looked widely up at him. 

     “Uuh,” he cleared his throat, “Nothing. It wasn’t important.” He grabbed the bag from the bakery and pulled the last item from within. “Here, you can have this now.”

     It was a strawberry cupcake topped with the pinkest frosting achievable. It had only stayed intact because of the individual box it had come in. The pink color of the cake unsettled Clint; it did not seem natural for an edible item. Jodie’s eyes, on the other hand, widened until he could see the reflection of the cupcake in them. “For me?” she whispered in awe.

     Clint smiled and put it in her hands. “Of course. Who else loves strawberry cupcakes with pink frosting?”

     “Nobody!” she cried and dug into the sugary treat. The wrapper was pulled away in a flash and the bottom eaten first. The coveted top and frosting were saved for last. 

    “So,” Clint said awkwardly, “Have you been getting along with the other kids?” He hated this; making conversation was never his strong suit. He would prefer to let Jodie drag him off to show him something, or engage him in a game subject to her ever-changing imagination. At times like these, he felt impossibly old and disconnected. 

    Jodie did not even look up from her cupcake: “No.” 

     An astonished look passed over his face. Jodie never got along well with the other kids in the orphanage, but the bluntness of her answer caught him off guard. It did not seem right for such a fact to be so accepted by a young child who deserved the world. He floundered mentally for a bit, unsure of how to follow up. “Last time you said things were getting better,” he tried.

     “Mrs. Hathborne told them to be nice. Everyone listened to Mrs. Hathborne. She’s gone now.”

     “What about Ms. Garner? She seems like a great caretaker.”

     Her small hands tangled in the bottom of her dress. “I like her. She’s a girl, though.”

     He looked deeply into her eyes. Her last statement was concerning. “What’s wrong with being a girl?”

     “Andy says Ms. Garner’s a girl, so she’s weak. He’s a boy so he’s strong.”

     Indignation flared within Clint at this ridiculous statement from this so-called ‘Andy’ character. “Jodie,” he said seriously, “there is nothing wrong with being a girl. In fact, most of them are better than boys,” Red hair and black coffee flashed into his mind, “so never let anyone tell you boys are better than girls.”

     She sat silently for a moment, staring up at him. From her expression, Clint could see her absorbing what he had said. She often got such a look, as though she was sending external input through a mental processor. 

     Suddenly, a smile lit up her face, “Okay!” Under her breath she sang, “Boys aren’t better than girls” to the time of her swinging feet.

     Clint did not notice he was watching her with a stupidly content smile plastered on his face until her head snapped up to look at him. “Let’s play a game.” She hopped to her feet and looked expectantly at him. 

     He placed his hands on his knees and leaned his torso forward so he was eye level with her. Mischievous humming escaped him, “I don’t know. I kind of feel like taking a nap.”

     “Please?” she begged.

     Clint stretched his arms over his head and yawned. He curled up on the bench and pretended to snore. “Hey,” Jodie urged. She tugged on his arm, vainly trying to haul his much larger body off the bench. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

     Giving in to her pleading, Clint sat up. He ruffled her hair playfully. “I’m just kidding, sport.” The affectionate nickname felt weird on his lips. “What do you want to play?”

     He was pulled roughly to standing. She skipped away to the middle of the grassy meadow in the courtyard that was bathed in sunlight. “Let’s play bird man,” she replied. “Your nest is over there.” She pointed to a flat boulder. 

     Already aware of this game’s mechanics – and granted it was an odder one that had sprouted from her imagination – Clint sat obediently on the boulder. This brought about a cry from her, “No, you need to sit like a bird.”

     Sighing, he shifted his position from cross-legged to kneeling. He tucked his arms to his chest like a chicken. Clint, while perfectly fine with this, hoped Ms. Garner could not see him through the window. 

     Jodie, meanwhile, was running around collecting things from the courtyard. She returned with a quite a various assortment: her empty water bottle, a leaf, a rock with spots, and a flower she had picked from one of the bushes. They were dumped carefully onto the rock. She began explaining each one, and their ‘position’ in Clint’s ‘family’: “This one’s a girl; she likes rain. He’s her brother, and very funny. And this one is afraid of the dark, so you have to be careful with her…” 

     She ran off to find more objects, while Clint was left to watch over them. That was his role as the bird man: he sat in his nest and took care of his family. Feeling slightly silly at himself, he continued to do so for Jodie’s sake.

     Mortifying embarrassment did not set in until an official man in a well-pressed suit stepped out into the courtyard and glared hard at him. He instantly recognized him as Mr. Lance, someone he wished to be seen as impeccable by. Acutely aware of his situation, but not wanting to upset Jodie, Clint sat there with his cheeks burning. 

     “Mr. Barton?” Mr. Lance announced indifferently. 

     “Yes, sir?” he called out weakly.

     He gestured to Jodie, “Your time today is up, unfortunately. In addition, I require a meeting with you in my office.”

     “Of course.” He stood up, taking the empty water bottle and grabbing the rest of their trash from lunch. Jodie eyed him with dismay. “Clint?”

     He kneeled in front of her. “Unfortunately, I must leave, Jodie. I’ll see you next week though, like always.”

     Her gaze was cast downward. “Okay,” she said in a small voice. Before he could stand up, she pulled him into a tight hug. Clint almost thought she was not going to let go. She finally relinquished her tight hold, and looked up at Mr. Lance. 

     He nodded slightly and gestured to the doorway to room 202. “You can move along to Ms. Garner, Jodie.” She nodded, but the image of her small form walking away alone left a sad note in Clint. 

     “Follow me, Mr. Barton,” the man directed. He led him through a different door, since the courtyard connected to different sections of the complex. Once they had re-entered the clinical inside of the building, Clint could tell they were near the entrance. 

     It was a short walk of identical hallways and doors until they reached Lance’s office. The young man plopped unceremoniously into a rolling chair and began shuffling through papers on the desk. Clint felt nervous among the perfect orderliness of the room. Not a single folder, book, or knick-knack was out of place. He sat down on the opposite side of the desk like he had done many times before. 

     Andrew Lance, for that was his full name, interrupted his shuffling to direct his focus to Clint. “It’s been a while since we met, Mr. Barton.” He merely nodded in agreement. The man deftly rolled to a nearby filing cabinet and removed a folder. He laid it down on the desk with a firm hand. The label clearly stated “Barton, Clint.”

     “We’ve encountered a problem with your paperwork,” he said bluntly. 

     Clint squinted in confusion, “A problem?”

     Lance continued, “As you know, the adoption process is very long and selective. To pass you must meet a list of requirements such as compatibility with the child, living arrangements, and financial security.” He lifted an eyebrow at him, “In your situation, I have chosen to overlook your living arrangements for the time being, while you are being background checked. Possibly the most important part of the adoption process, this is where we have a problem.”

     He flipped the folder open and sifted through the small stack of documents within. “As I have looked further back in time for documents and history, I have come up with surprisingly little. This is natural to a certain degree when it comes to an age of adolescence. However, in your case, there is none to be found. Early things such as your birth certificate were easy, but after that you appear to have fallen off the face of the Earth. It is not until your mid teenage years do we get to see another official document with your name on it.”

     Clint had not realized he had begun to sweat nervously until Lance took a moment to breathe. He let the information sink in, and felt his hope fleeing by the second. He was not one to identify with optimism or pessimism – he found such things unnecessary and pointless – but found he was leaning towards the latter. 

     Seeing his reluctant silence, the man let out a sigh that deflated his energy level to that of Clint’s. When he spoke again, the edge in his voice that made it harsh had disappeared, “Look, what it boils down to is this: I need official documents for your background check. What I am asking is for you to provide me with what I need.”

     Clint was quiet. Such a request was difficult to fulfill. “When would you want me to supply you with these documents?”

     Lance tapped his fingers on the desk. “Your background check is scheduled to be completed in three months. I’ll extend the time for you, so I would need them by the end of the three months.”

     Clint looked down into his lap. “Okay,” he breathed. 

     “Listen,” Lance leaned forward in his seat, “I shouldn’t be doing this for you, but you seem like a good guy. And mostly because I have never seen Jodie get along so well with another person.”

     He looked up then, and they shared a strangely tender look. Clint could see the man’s concern for Jodie, and he empathized with it. He stood to go, but stopped when a question floated into his head: “How many documents will you need?”

     “As many as possible.”

     Clint nodded then, but the action was tipped more to the floor than the man sitting at the desk. He walked loudly to the door so that he may escape the judging confines of the place. 

     Lance spoke up once more, with a slight bite to his words, “Oh, and Clint? Be careful, would you? Any funny business and we’ll know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What an interesting chapter this was indeed. I apologize if I got legalities and such of adoption wrong; I am not familiar with the subject.  
> Jodie was an interesting character to work with, and hopefully I pulled off a childlike personality for her. We'll see more of her in the future.  
> If you've read this far, thank you so much! You stuck around with this project of mine for over 15,000 words! *confetti*  
> PS: I love and appreciate feedback, so if you would like, leave a comment or a kudo, you'll make my day


	7. Stalking and Criminal Organizations

     Clint knew the coincidence card would no longer work. There was no possible way in all the heavens that such a series of events would happen without a reason. He knew as soon as the man from earlier that morning appeared on the sidewalk while on his way home that something was off. This time he was prepared to take action.  
 

     Instead of taking a roundabout way to his apartment or ducking into some store, Clint pulled out his phone and dialed the police for the second time in the past couple days. His hand thumped nervously against his side while the dial tone beeped in his ear. It was a different woman this time, but she possessed the same faked friendliness in her voice. She practically sounded tired from a long days work. Her greeting was customary at best. “This is the New York Police Department, how can we be of service?”  
 

     Clint’s voice was hushed and hurried, “I’m being followed.”                                                       

     Her response was immediate, as if she was born for this moment. In reality, she was at least trained for it. “Okay, sir. Please give me your name and location and describe the situation as best you can.”  
 

     “My name is Clint Barton. I’m at-“   
 

     She cut him off abruptly, “Did you say Clint Barton?”  
 

     “Yes,” he rolled his eyes even though she could not see it. His patience was waning thin.  
 

     Silence persisted for a few moments. “I’m going to have to transfer your call. One moment please.”  
 

     “Wait, just a second-” the line cut out to the beeping of a ringing call. The voice that answered after a minute threw him for a loop.  
 

     “Mr. Barton, I need you to give me your location, your destination, and the description of your stalker,” It was the deadpan voice of the agent from the other night. What was his name? Coulson?  
 

     Clint held back any questions he might have, but the itch to ask was hard to ignore. “I’m at 79 and Maple. I’m heading to my apartment. As for my stalker, he’s short and squatty with a permanently disgruntled expression. I noticed he was following me earlier.”  
 

     “I’m going to need you to give me the address of your apartment.”  
 

     Feeling strange about divulging the information, Clint complied. He figured the police department was not going to use the information against him. Still, he was concerned about what they were going to do about this stalker. “Any chance you can tell me how you plan to help my situation?” he questioned.  
 

     Coulson’s voice was clear and direct, “Just head to your apartment, Mr. Barton. We are taking measures to remedy your situation and keep you safe. Just be aware of the man following you, and call us if he does anything strange.”  
 

     “But-”  
 

     “We have the situation covered.” The agent hung up.  
 

     Feeling no better about the situation, Clint shoved the phone angrily into his pocket. He had uttered the same statement the last time they had spoken, as if it solved all problems, and behaved so cryptically when he had arrived to make a “report”.  
 

     The eyes on the back of his head would not leave though.  They made his heart race, and his palms sweated in anticipation for something to occur. He quickened his pace, in an attempt to reach his inviting apartment faster and place more distance between himself and the stranger.  
 

     To his dismay, the man had not disappeared by the time he had rounded the corner to his apartment. What drew his attention more, however, was the sleek black cars and police vehicles lined up in front of the building. A gut feeling started forming in his insides of wary dread. This situation did not bode well. As he approached, the agent from the other day exited one of the many cars. A badge was flashed for unnecessary confirmation, and the older man opened his mouth to say something.  
 

     He stopped suddenly, stock-still. Clint looked behind him to see the center of his focus. Standing on the corner was his stalker, looking very much caught in the act. He did not move at first, until he finally let out an alarming shout and dove to the side of the nearest building for shelter.  
 

     In that moment, the world changed in an almost incomprehensible fashion. Agents, all wearing black suits like Coulson, and bearing handguns, darted out from behind the cars. Policemen joined them, conversely dressed in armored vests and other forms of protection. Guns were pulled out in a flash, and the sound of shouting was apparent in the midst of that split second. The next moment, a new onslaught revealed itself. Out of nowhere came a crew of shifty men. They moved quickly and deftly, and Clint was left reeling by their appearance. This was not his average day.  
 

     Coulson was shouting at him. He was pushing him as well, attempting to move him behind the slim shelter the cars provided. “Get back,” he shouted.  
 

     Without wasting precious time, Clint complied and dove behind the wall of vehicles, alongside the rest of the police force. He would have stayed there, if it had not been for a large brute attacking from the opposite side behind the defense line. He appeared suddenly, but silently, and Clint did not even notice his presence until he slammed into the agent to his right. He had crashed the woman’s head into the car, and she slumped against it. A thin line of blood trickled from her forehead.  
 

     Clint scrambled away. The brute turned on him immediately, ignoring the armed men around him, who had just noticed his proximity. Weaponless and with his heart racing, Clint turned and ran, headed for the apartment complex. Behind him, he could hear the man advancing, mixed with the shouts of the agents who were attempting to stop the armored man. Somewhere amid the fray, Coulson shouted, “Barton! Don’t draw him away from the agents!”  
 

     He did not heed him though, for the only thought in his mind was escaping into either some semblance of safety or some means of defending himself. Knowing the elevator would take too long, Clint started running up the stairs. He had five flights to go, but the adrenaline coursing through him made the duration insignificant. The sound of the footsteps following him also served as an effective incentive for his pace.   
 

     When he reached the floor his apartment was on, the strange mood of the building hit him. He fumbled for his keys, a domestic action he did everyday, but the entire situation was so wrong. His heart threatened to choke himself with its frantic pace. 

     As soon as he entered his home, the lock on his door was quickly set in place. He knew it would not do much good against the man storming down the hallway, but he could not dwell on the thought. With his attacker rapidly approaching, Clint focused on getting something to defend himself.  
 

     The first place he looked was the closet. Filled with piles of junk, he dove to the bottom of it until his fingers gripped the smooth wood of something long forgotten.  
 

     The bow was large and worn, with chips and scratches from so many years ago decorating the instrument. It was odd to hold it again. Memories threatened to flow back, but these needed to be pushed down. Instead, Clint tried to focus on the familiar feel and curve of it. The quiver was just underneath where the bow had rested, and he dug it out in a flash. They were only dull practice arrows, but they still could inflict pain from a close distance. With his visitor now banging on his front door, he darted out into the living room just as the door gave way with a bang.  
 

     The man filled the doorway, and Clint could only register the angry whites of his eyes before he fired an arrow. It made contact with the man’s chest, and despite bouncing off harmlessly, hit him with enough force to make him stumble.  
 

     Before the man could orient himself, Clint jumped over the couch in the living room and socked him in the jaw. The brute recovered quickly, and jabbed his own fist into Clint’s stomach. The instinctive reaction to double over overtook him. With only a portion of his mind able to think properly, he struggled through the pain and lunged from his lower vantage point.  
 

     The man was taken off guard, and with an unbalanced weight distribution, both bodies fell to the floor. Clint had the fortune of being on the top. He used it to deliver another few blows to the man’s face, until he could see red trickling from his nose.  
 

     The man struggled back, and managed to get his hands onto Clint’s shoulders. A power struggle ensued, as they each tried to pry each other’s grip off themselves. Taking a risk and letting go, Clint managed to land another punch on the man.  
 

     He was preparing for another one, hoping to knock him out, when the man suddenly flipped their positions. A fist collided with his face and sent a metallic tang through his mouth. He resisted again, but suddenly the man’s weight lifted off him. He stood up, and Clint vaguely heard him mutter, “Doesn’t matter anyways. You’ll be gone.” And with that the man disappeared through the open doorway, slamming the door that was falling of its hinges, and began stomping down the hall.  
 

     Clint sat up in confused haze. He regained his bow, which had fallen out of his grip during the tussle. Thoughts whizzed in and out of his head. He wondered if he should try to pursue the man, but quickly dismissed it as absurd; he would have to have a death wish to do such a thing. Outside, he could hear yelling and gunshots from the police, but found he could only wonder at the man’s out of place statement. “You’ll be gone,” he had said, but what could that mean?  
 

     _The apartment_ , Clint thought. It had to be something with the apartment. A sense of urgency flooded him and he shot up and began darting around the room. He had no idea what to look for, but something felt off, and he needed to find it. He upturned his couch cushions, searched the mess in his closet again, and even looked in the small icebox, but still found nothing out of the ordinary.  
 

     He was feeling completely at a loss until he noticed a shiny black watch sitting on his small coffee table. He never liked watches - they felt weird on his wrist - and the only one he owned was buried in the bottom of the drawer in his bedside table. He would have had no reason in the past few days to take it out, and had no recollection of any such action either.  
 

     He picked up the small object warily. It looked like a normal watch, with a sleek metal strap and a round face. It was not until he noticed the digits were ticking down did he realize what he was holding. Panic once again flooded him, and he knew he had little time to react. Clint looked about frantically for a solution. Diffusing it was impossible; he had no knowledge of the subject. Leaving the apartment was an option, but the idea of leaving a live bomb in a public building filled with innocent people did not sit at all with him.  
 

     Suddenly, the light bulb went off in his head. Rushing out of the apartment, he took the stairs up, past the last few flights and onto the rooftop. The weather was calm, with little wind – perfect for his plan. Clint ran to the edge, and began strapping the watch to an arrow.  
 

     He surveyed the area in haste. The buildings in this part of town were not extremely tall, making him fairly level with the other rooftops. The commotion on the ground was still in full swing, so he went unnoticed, and ready to execute his plan.  
 

     Nocking the arrow, Clint aimed towards the moon, and waited. He knew he had to time it just right, and he carefully watched the numbers tick down on the watch. It was stressing; soon Clint’s arms began to shake, and sweat started to run down his brow in nervous anticipation. When the timer lowered those agonizing, few numbers down to five, Clint released the arrow.  
 

     Breathing became a function incapable for him. His heart leaped into his throat as he saw the small projectile sailing through the air, higher and higher as it neared its peak. Silently, Clint whispered a prayer to himself that it was high enough.  
 

     The explosion was like a supernova. Amid the twinkling electric stars of the city, the bomb burst in a miasma of flame and color. Heat blasted Clint and made his skin prickle even hundreds of feet below on the rooftop. Further down, the sounds of fighting stopped abruptly, but the shouts persisted louder than before. As the fire flickered out of existence into the inky blackness of the night, Clint was glad the bomb had become an explosion of a strange and grotesque beauty instead of an explosion of death. He stood watching it numbly as the display disappeared harmlessly.  
 

     He did not realize he had stayed frozen in place after the bomb went off, cradling his bow, until the police stormed onto the rooftop. Clint reacted on instinct. His sense kicked into high gear, and he whirled around shooting an arrow at the figure closest to him.  
 

     If it were not for Coulson’s reflexes, a bruise the size of a quarter would have made its mark on his skull. He dodged Clint’s arrow, and it went sailing past. He stopped his advance towards him, however, and maintained a cautious distance.  
 

     Realizing who it was, Clint lowered his bow, but kept his second arrow nocked. He squinted distrustfully at the man before him. “What is going on?” he demanded.  
 

     Coulson eyed his bow with a curious expression. His eyebrow was arched, and he almost appeared to be pondering something, something that Clint felt would not be good. “Well?” he demanded again.  
 

     A shift passed over the man’s face and a placating smile appeared. “Please, Mr. Barton, I can explain if you would just withdraw your weapon.”  
 

     He was hesitant to obey. Animalistic instincts to defend were rising up within him from his leftover nerves. The bow was slung reluctantly over his shoulder, and he folded his arms expectantly over his chest.  
 

     “You were targeted by the criminal organization known as the Romanov’s,” Coulson explained. He paused as if expecting a reaction, but Clint merely stood and waited. He continued, “Your run in with the redhead the other day is the catalyst behind this. With a high price placed on her head by the Romanov’s, your involvement with her immediately made you a person to be eliminated. You reported instances of being followed, correct?”  
 

     He nodded in the affirmative. “They were not coincidences. This attack was set into motion as soon as the intruder broke into your work.”

     “So, what does that mean for me?”

     “I suggest our witness protection program. It’s a bit extreme, but one of the safest SHIELD programs available.”

     “Excuse, me, SHIELD?”

     The agent pulled an ID badge from his coat pocket, and flashed it at him. It was different from a police badge, with a unique eagle insignia. “Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. It’s a specialized force.”

     Clint’s eyebrow arched in skepticism. “Well forgive my bluntness, but I’m not agreeing to such a thing. I have a life and responsibilities, and will not be sent to the other side of the country under a fake identity for safety.”

     It was the agent’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “I see. If you’re so adamant, there’s nothing I can do to stop you, but…” there was the inevitable downside, “I will station some of my agents to protect you for the time being. In the future, if there is no inkling of an attack by the Romanov’s on you, you will be free from all associations with SHIELD. Does that sound satisfactory?”  
 

     He peered absently mindedly over the side of the rooftop as he thought. The ground below was scattered with people milling about, and the evidence of gunshots peppered the concrete. He was not concerned about safety per-se, he could protect himself, but such sights were grave and worrisome. Clint looked past the man at the armed troops behind him, and then back at the subtle agent himself who still posed a silent threat in his own way.  Much lower key, he figured, to go with an agent.  
He sighed, “I accept your offer.”

     The man nodded briskly, and the squad of men, though it was unnecessary, escorted him down the building. On the street, it was a throng of police officers, agents, and reporters. The street had been blocked off, and restrained by the yellow tape was a ring of curious bystanders. 

     Clint stood to the side awkwardly, put off by the enormity of people. Coulson remedied that quickly enough by dragging him off to another agent for a report. He had tried protesting, but the man insisted, claiming, “You have important information that could help us with our case against the Romanov’s. I need all the details you can give.”

     He had pulled him up against one of the sleek black cars characteristic of the SHIELD agents. “Carter!” he shouted, “I need a detailed report from Barton on everything that has happened since the break-in at the coffee shop.”

     “You got it, sir,” a familiar voice replied. Peggy appeared out of nowhere, dressed in her classic office outfit. A SHIELD badge was pinned to her chest, and she clutched a notepad in her hands. “Well, hello, Clint,” she said sweetly, “You’ve had quite a night haven’t you?”

     He ruffled his hair in confusion and stared wide-eyed at his boss’s girlfriend. His silence provided her with answer enough. She flipped to a new page in her book, “It looks like we have a lot of questions to go through.”

     Behind her, Coulson kept glancing over his shoulder at the two of them, with a calculated gaze that always fell on Clint’s hands clutching his bow tightly like a lifeline. Something did not add up.

   
 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was difficult to write; I don't know how to depict action scenes. Oh well, hopefully its okay. At least now the plot is beginning to progress slowly but surely. Things are going to start picking up really soon.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far. I hope you've been enjoying this story. As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.


	8. Aftermath

     Steve’s true nature proved to be that of a clucking mother hen. Before Peggy’s interrogation was finished –which he was still reeling over – his phone was ringing off the hook. He had ignored it until all of the investigators and police had left, when he finally responded to his calls.  
 

     “Clint!” His eardrum nearly collapsed from the worried shout from the other line, “Are you okay? I saw it on the news! There are sirens everywhere, please tell me you’re okay?”  
 

     “I’m fine, really.” Despite a few bruises on his face and scrapes along his arms, he was fine. Clint had gotten worse injuries when he was younger.  
 

     “What happened? Who did this?” Steve peppered him with questions.  
 

     “It’s a long story.”  
 

     “Well, what are you going to do now? Do you need a place to stay?  
 

      Clint looked up at his apartment. The sidewalk had seen better days; it looked like a war zone. Inside, however, he knew nothing was out of the ordinary except for a door barely clinging to its hinges.  
 

     Nearby stood a few agents, stone-faced and silent, the ones Coulson had stationed to protect Clint. They were backed into the shadows, and patrolling the area with fierce gazes. Their presence did not help; he just did not feel safe in the tattered area his home was in.  
 

     “Yeah, a place to stay would be nice,” he said wistfully.  
 

     “Then come over to my place,” Steve offered. “You can crash here.”  
 

     Clint was a bit reluctant to accept Steve’s hospitality. He still viewed him as a boss more than anything else, but since the night at the carnival he had begun rethinking their relationship. He finally agreed, “Okay. Where do you live?”  
 

     “On Carlyle Street, by the city library,” he said, “Oh, and Clint? Take a cab, I don’t want you walking around on your own. I’ll pay for it when you get here.”  
 

     “But-”  
 

     “Just take a cab, Clint.” With a quick goodbye, Steve hung up on him. He walked further into town, to better find a cab. The agents followed him discreetly, but the thought of what he was going to do with them troubled him. Was he going to be crammed into a cab with several agents more unsociable than him and a driver casting suspicious glares?  
 

     Speaking with them was not something he particularly desired, so he merely left them to make their own decision. They were agents, so surely they had advanced technology to keep track of him at all times. Clint wondered if he should see it as a privacy issue.  
 

     He supposed he should be more concerned with his destination since Steve had not told given him much of a description. He found he did not need it when he saw the small form of Steve sitting patiently on the steps to the apartment building.  
 

     His boss jumped up with gusto when his cab pulled up to the curb. Unlike any other New York citizen, he thanked the cabbie graciously, and handed him a few extra dollars than was necessary. Clint felt strangely lacking next to his morality. 

     The man turned to him, “Come on, you’ve had a stressful day, let’s get you inside.” He led him through the apartment building, which was much more simplistic than Clint had expected. It was nicer than his own now-sad looking building, but for some reason he had been expecting something more luxurious. Steve gestured and pointed to different parts of the building proudly: the lobby desk, the elevator, the decorations. 

     When they had landed on his floor, Clint was surprised to see an old woman looking lost and surrounded by a plethora of cats. She spoke urgently as soon as she noticed them, “Oh, Steve, they managed to get out again. If the landlord finds out, he won’t be so lenient this time. I’ll get kicked out for sure!”

     “Well, then Mrs. Hadley, we’ll have to do something about it. Clint, come help me.” He stooped without another word and scooped a protesting cat into his arms. Another soon joined his friend in Steve’s arms. 

      Clint, feeling very awkward, did so as well, picking up a jet-black cat that stared unsettlingly at him with green eyes. Steve and he worked swiftly, loading cats into their arms and depositing them into the elderly woman’s apartment. 

     Steve was being very affectionate with the creatures, calling them all by name, and giving them a scratch on their head when they came to him. Despite his allergies acting up, he gladly contributed to the cat hair littering the room. Mrs. Hadley was chattering away, talking about everything “they” had been up to, with “they” being her and her cats.

     Once the cats had all been herded into the apartment, her prattle continued and Clint worried she would not stop. He half expected her to sit them down for milk and cookies. 

      “Oh, Steve, thank you so much!” she proclaimed, “I don’t know what we would have done if you and your friend hadn’t shown up!”

     Steve’s voice was thick from allergies, and sniffs began to punctuate his sentences, “Oh, its no trouble ma’am. We’re glad we could help.”

     Motherly concern flooded into her voice, “Are your allergies giving you trouble, Steve? I’ll bring you some of my natural remedies for that nose of yours.” She disappeared without waiting for an answer, and Clint was left alone with cat hair and a sneezing Steve. The amount of feline eyes on him was unsettling. 

     She came back soon enough with her natural remedy and a baggie of tea biscuits. Steve accepted them cordially, “Thank you, Mrs. Hadley,” He glanced to Clint, “We would love to stay and chat, but it’s getting late, and I am afraid we must leave.”

     “Oh alright, then. But you are coming to my granddaughter’s recital this week, right?”

     “Of course, ma’am, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

     A smile spread across her face of pure content. Steve’s face portrayed pure honesty, and Clint thought himself silly for thinking he was ever a man to live in an upscale, ritzy apartment like the unhappy business men so common among the crowds of New York City.

     Steve wished her a farewell, and began to leave, but Clint froze in place by the penetrating stare of the black cat. It locked eyes with him, green orbs as round as a poisonous moon, not even disrupted by blinking. “Um, he won’t stop staring at me.”

     “Oh, that’s Loki,” the old woman said, “He doesn’t usually like people; he always runs away when people are around. There must be something different about you.”

     Nerves twinged up inside Clint towards the devil cat. “Uh, sure,” he muttered. He followed Steve’s lead and left with a terse goodbye. 

     “Sorry for making you do that,” Steve apologized as soon as the door shut behind them.

     “S’alright. Not the craziest thing I’ve done today.”

     Steve’s apartment was tidy and clean. It was awash in neutral colors, but decorative aspects similar to those in the Café Americano were present. The place exuded a comfortable warmth.  
Polite as ever, Steve asked, “Would you like a drink?”

     Clint shook his head. He wandered about the place, casually looking it up and down. A picture of Peggy and Steve sat on the coffee table. He wondered where the agents had gone, probably setting up watch at every entrance to the building. He wished he could savor his time, but a question was burning a hole inside him.

     “Steve, where does Peggy work?”

     He answered without a beat, “At the police department.” He took a sip innocently from a glass of water he had poured himself.

     “What does she do there?”

     “Legal work and protocol mostly. I’ve asked her for details before, but she doesn’t like to talk about it. She says most of its too gruesome to be worth repeating.” He leaned casually against the counter in his small kitchen. Clint scrutinized him. The man protruded honesty like beacons of light. He thought it too suspicious to push fro answers. After all, he had no wish to cause any conflict in their relationship. He sat down on Steve’s tan couch wordlessly. Silence drifted into the apartment. It was only interrupted by the clinking of ice against the glass in Steve’s hands and his intermittent sniffs. 

     “Do you want to talk about it?”

     Clint looked up to see the concern in Steve’s eyes. “Talk about what?”

     “I think you know what.”

     A sigh heaved his shoulders. “What I am supposed to say about it? A man gets targeted by a criminal organization, and comes away unscathed, everything is hunky dory,” he said bitterly. 

     “I don’t know, Clint. Is there anything you absolutely need to say? Something that is weighing on you?”

     His words rang with Clint. A heaviness had settled in chest that made him feel so out of place in this apartment. The domesticity of Steve himself seemed so foreign and desirable. It was something he did not want to feel, but something much more desirable than what he found at his apartment.

     “I’m worried, Steve.”

      The sound of glass on the countertop alerted Clint to his approaching presence. The couch sank with a tired groan as he sat down. “How so?” he asked in a tone that suggested he already knew the answer. 

     “I was offered a place in a witness protection program. I refused.” He could sense Steve’s silent question of “why?”

     “I didn’t want to be one of those people who lives in fear, in apprehension of what may happen. Life is too short for such foolishness, and I intend not to care about whatever a criminal may do. Isn’t that what they want, anyways?”

     He expected Steve to respond with some sort of advice, or a statement of conflict to his ideas. Instead, he continued to keep his demeanor of silence. He was completely willing to listen. 

     “But things aren’t just about me anymore. Even now I am afraid that my presence endangers you,” he thought of the agents that were undoubtedly somewhere close by. “And the thought of Jodie… if something happened to me, I don’t know how she would react. I don’t want to put her through something like that.”

     Steve took a few moments before he chose to respond. Clint himself felt bare, uncomfortably naked, in a way that he was not used to. Outside, a shout from Mrs. Hadley indicated another cat had escaped. 

      “But isn’t that the way things are supposed to be?” Steve questioned. “You feel such things because you care for her. It’s a simple fact that isn’t going to change so long as you keep her close to you. It’s the curse and blessing of the heart; it creates a wonderful bond, but one that isn’t free from strife or worry.”

     Clint felt humanity worm strongly through his entire being. He continued, “You would do anything for her, and that’s all that matters. It does not do to stress over the what ifs.”  
He looked up into Steve’s eyes. That glaring sincerity shone once again from their depths. He sighed and sunk back into the couch like a deflated balloon. A yawn escaped him. 

     “Tired, huh?” Steve asked with a slight laugh to his voice. 

     “You have no idea.”

     Steve pulled him to his feet. “Come on, you need to go to bed.”

     Clint was led to a small bedroom, just as tidy as the living room. A bed sat in the middle, with crisp clean edges and perfectly folded sheets. He turned to the other in indignation, “I’m not sleeping in your bed.”

     “It’s no big deal. You deserve to get some good rest,” Steve insisted. 

     He crossed his arms. “I’m not about to steal your bed.”

     “Unfortunately for you, you are.” He looked down at a watch on his wrist. “Well, its getting late. If you need me, I’ll be on the couch.’ He disappeared to the front of the apartment.

     “Steve!” Clint yelled. No response. He sighed in resignation. As much as he despised this situation, drowsiness was beginning to make his eyelids droop shut. He kicked off his shoes and carefully climbed into Steve’s pristine bed. He had expected the awkwardness of it to keep him up, but as soon as he lay down on the soft mattress, sleep washed over him in soothing waves.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pretty short, but my mind has been preoccupied with Age of Ultron stuff for the past few days. Hopefully shortly I can get some fanfics out for that, but I do not intend to leave this fic behind.  
> On another note, hope you enjoyed some Clint and Steve friendship feels/character development, and an appearance by Lokitty! As soon as Mrs. Hadley entered this fic, I just couldn't refuse including him :)


	9. Hawkeye?

     Steve had awakened him with coffee and cheeriness. The man was as radiant as the sun itself in the mornings. He had not even uttered a word before Clint could feel aggravation gnawing at his mind. The coffee rather made up for it though.  
 

     The monotony of the Café Americano was welcoming. The rush was overwhelming, and his hands were a constant blur of action. His soul finally relaxed into a sense of peace he had not felt for days. Perhaps, things would be looking up.  
 

     The calm, suited menace did not appear until his lunch break. He had just sat down to eat a ham sandwich that Steve had made for him at the apartment when the agent walked into the café. Outside, he could see the signature car parked like a dark omen.  
 

     “Hello again, Mr. Barton,” Coulson greeted. 

     The sandwich fell out of his hand with a disappointing squelch. “What are you doing here?” Clint grunted.

     “I have some things to discuss with you.”

     He huffed. “I thought this was all taken care of last night. You even sent some of your agents to keep track of me like a hapless child.”

     “I have things of a different nature to talk to you about.” 

     Steve, who had been in the backroom, reappeared at the counter. He called out to the tall man, “Welcome to the Café Americano!”

     The agent nodded to him with a pleasant smile. “Good day, Steve.”

     His boss blinked in confusion. “How do you now my name?”

     Coulson’s shiny badge was flashed quickly. “I work at the police department. Peggy is very fond of you.”

     “Oh, well, I’ll let her know you stopped by.”

     “Actually,” he gestured to Clint, “I have an interest in your employee.” The barista drew back in a slight affront at his phrasing.

     Steve maintained his pleasant tone, but his gaze grew slightly suspicious. “Oh? What for?”

     “It’s in regards to events from last night. Classified business. I’m afraid he must come with me for the time being.”

     His eyes darted to Clint’s. He gave no response, so Steve’s thin shoulders merely shrugged. “Very well. We’re not busy, so I suppose I can let him go for a little bit.”

     Coulson nodded sharply. “Thank you. Come with me, Clint.”

     Wrapping his sandwich up carefully and placing it behind the counter for later, he followed silently. They stepped outside, and into the car waiting for them. A driver sat like a marble statue in the front seat, while Clint worried about keeping as much distance as possible between him and the agent. 

     The man never looked at him. He never did anything. He simply sat, frustratingly quiet, and let the tension build as Clint ran all the possible questions the man might have for him through his head. He thought he had been interrogated enough by Peggy last night. 

     Their destination was the police department itself. Clint glanced warily to the agent. “I’m not getting arrested, am I?”

     A half smile worked its way onto his face. “Nothing like that,” he said.

     The police department was unglorified and busy. People darted about, talking to others, dropping off files, and tapping away on computers. Three identifiable categories were visible among the employees. A small majority’s chests were adorned with the identifying initials of the police department, and holsters could be seen hanging from their hips. The next group was dressed for office work, but their appearances were more demure and soft than the remaining group. These people wore the dignified suits of the agents, as indicated by the small eagle insignia on their chests. Coulson directed him to a conference room, set apart from the ordinary flow of the department. The fiery tendrils of a familiar redhead greeted his eyes as the brightest thing in the drab room.

     Clint gaped at her, trying to formulate a question such as “Why are you here” in his head. Instead, he settled for a harsh glare – as far as he knew, she was the cause of his little encounter the other night- and sunk into the other chair. The agent opted for the seat behind the desk.

     “I’ve done some research about you, Clint,” Coulson started, “A few interesting things came up.” He swallowed at the implication behind his tone. His face remained stony and unsuspecting. Coulson continued, “More specifically, the name Hawkeye. That wouldn’t happen to ring any bells?”

     “Uh, I’m afraid not,” his hand clenched against his leg.

     The agent’s eyes did not miss his small gesture of discomfort. “Listen, Mr. Barton, it will be much easier if you just cooperate.” He pulled a folder from a drawer in the desk and waved it in front of him. “We have enough evidence to get a warrant right now.”

     Both the agent’s and the redhead’s eyes were on him. Disinterest flashed in her irises, but weariness was present in Coulson’s, underneath a current of firmness. The reminder of Clint’s personal bodyguards drifted into his mind. He was distinctly aware of how much he was being watched currently.

     “And if it does sound familiar?”

     “Then I have a proposition for you.”

     Clint worried his lip. He could not recall any instance in which he had divulged such information, even with the closest of people. He relented, seeing no other option; he had been found out. “Hawkeye was an alias of mine many years ago.”

     The redhead looked up. A small gleam appeared in her eyes, as if he had just said something of interest to her. Coulson, on the other hand, nodded in satisfaction. “I knew as much.”

     “How did you find out?” he inquired.

     “You’re talent with a bow is very particular. Few people possess such skill with the weapon. Years ago, a small instance made its way to SHIELD. There were reports of a vigilante, taking care of villains before the cops could get there. He was said to have impeccable aim with the bow, and the name Hawkeye was leaked to us. A few agents were put on the case to find leads. They made some progress, until, all of a sudden, all word of this Hawkeye character vanished. The trail ran cold, and the data was put in our system and forgotten. Your showmanship last night was impressive. I knew your abilities had been known to SHIELD before.”  

     “And how will this affect me?”

     “Instead of pressing charges, we have another option. As you may know, the Romanov’s were a very problematic system of organized crime disbanded several years ago. SHIELD had finally caught up to them with inside help, and scattered their members. However, they reformed, under our radar, in recent years. 

     “You have come into this picture because of our insider that leaked critical information the first time,” he gestured to the redhead. “A high price has been placed on Natasha’s head, making her a target for many of the Romanov’s and its allies. You first ran into her when she was escaping from a pursuer. Once your interaction with her became known, well, the Romanov’s aren’t one to be subtle. You had to be eliminated immediately.” 

     Natasha lifted her eyebrow at Clint in expectation of a judgmental glare. On any normal day, he would have. Currently, he was too concerned about absorbing everything the agent was saying. People finding out about your crime-fighting and becoming a target for the most dangerous mafia in New York was not something that happened everyday.

    “But this is more important: we need help against the Romanov’s. You have already been established as a target, and you possess skills that are very beneficial for the type of people we are looking for. In exchange for ignoring any of your misdoings as a vigilante, we ask for your cooperation against the Romanov’s.”

    Clint was wary. “What exactly would this entail?”

    “You would be trained with a partner until we gain more information on the activity of the organization. Once we plan an attack, you will be one of the people to see it through.”

     “Don’t you have agents to do this?” he countered.

     Coulson smiled with amusement. “SHIELD is a very large system. We deal with many problems, all over the country. I have many agents stationed on this problem, but to be honest, there are many more things that need attention. We’re spread thin, I’m afraid.”

     Natasha spoke up for the first time since he had entered the room. “Make your decision carefully. Working with SHIELD provides protection; a target like you needs it.”

     Clint weighed his options.  The mafia’s threat was a concern, but other things pressed on his mind. Jodie was once again a factor; he knew there was no way he could risk the possibility of her being left alone. Secondly, phantom memories of his time as a vigilante floated into his mind. He recalled exactly why he had quit that line of work. 

     “Well, I’m sorry sir, but there is too much at stake to agree to your offer. I left that life behind for a reason.”

     Natasha scowled bitterly at his side. The agent shot her a disapproving look. Disappointment was then directed to Clint. “You do realize what you are getting yourself into? I will be obligated to press some form of charges against you.”

     “Then so be it. There are other things that concern me more than what you can do,” he said in mock-confidence. Truthfully, he was concerned about the inevitable arrest his rejection would bring. He resolved to cross that bridge when he got there.

     “Then I believe our business is done, Mr. Barton. I expect to see you very soon in less agreeable circumstances.”

    Clint nodded, but refused to wish a farewell as merely a formality. He rose and turned sharply on his heel out of the office before the agent could force him to get a ride back to the café from one of the employees. He wanted to walk back to work; it would help him clear his thoughts. 

     The employees' gazes followed him out of the department, until the refreshing obscurity of the public washed over him. The streets were uncrowded, but the noise of the city was still unrelenting. It felt normal. It felt right. An empty alleyway he passed spilled memories from times long ago, from when he was struggling with a multiple identity and the threat of death that came with his actions. He never expected they would attempt to climb back into his life again. Right now, he really wanted to get back to his sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Hawkeye used to be a thing, and Coulson knows it. Slowly more of Clint's past is being revealed, and as a disclaimer, its something that I created out of a conglomeration of research of his canon past. So, hopefully it follows his actual backstory somewhat.
> 
> On another note, I recently made a tumblr! I'm still getting used to it, but it will soon be used for marvel things, updates on my fanfics, and any original work I come up with. If you're interested, my blog is at http://shadow-ember.tumblr.com/
> 
> Also, I wanted to give a big thank you to all of you! This story has gotten considerably more views than I expected and is my most popular fic. Thank you so much to all of you who have been sticking around as I go along!


	10. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooooo sorry! It's been over a month since I've updated this story. I haven't forgotten about it, I promise! Please take this chapter as consolation for my lateness.

     Clearing his mind was not easy. It was working on overdrive, leaving Clint feeling overwhelmed in his own thoughts. Anxiety was the name of his affliction, making him suffer through thousands of scenarios in his head, each a conceivable turn of events for his situation. After the agent's ultimatum, he feared one of the glossy cars the SHIELD agents so liked was going to pull up next to him and forcibly drag him back to the precinct. He was starting to rethink his decision to walk out; putting law enforcement on the opposing side was never a good idea. Still, the choice of reliving his old life was not an option.

     The other scenario was those so-called "personal bodyguards" turning against him and being the ones to turn him in. He found it strange that he had not seen a glimpse of them since he had stepped into the cab the other night. It was unclear whether their disappearance was a good or bad thing; the sneaky devils unsettled him either way.

     The possibility of gruff accents and harsh hands pulling him into an alley also tugged at his mind. An ironic movie kept playing in his head where the innocent citizen was beaten senseless by thugs and left for dead, whereupon a good samaritan may or may not come along. Of course, he would be the unlucky one whose death ended up plastered all over the news.

     The attack was still fresh in his mind. Flashes of it flitted through his brain: gunshots, bows and arrows, and a colorful explosion. It took him a minute to realize the sirens he was hearing were actually from somewhere in the city and not from his memory. Paranoia, a feeling he was not familiar with lingered in his mind, making him look over his shoulder in the anticipation of another stalker. Usually New Yorkers never paid much attention to each other, besides keeping a small personal bubble around them, but he did the action so frequently a few people behind him began to cast him strange looks. He could not blame them, but he was more concerned about keeping track of his surroundings to care. Being prepared for anything was the most important thing at the moment.

     What he was not expecting was for his phone to go off. The vibration in his pocket made him flinch, until he realized the source of the disturbance was his own cellular device. He numbly pulled it out of its fabric confines and stared at the screen, where the name Rogers flashed brightly. His boss was probably wondering where he was at; he had been gone for a long time.

     "Barton here," he answered.

     "Clint, thank God!" He straightened up immediately. Steve's voice was shaky, verging on panic, completely opposite from his ever-present jovial tone. Something was very, very wrong.

     "You-you need t-to get down here," he wheezed. His shallow gasps immediately tipped Clint off to the fact that he was hyperventilating.

     "Whoa, whoa," he soothed, trying to keep his own jumpy nerves calm, "Slow down and breathe, Steve." He did not need his asthmatic boss croaking on him.

     The other took several, shuddering gasps. His voice came stronger through the call, "I heard the sirens and checked the news. Just to see what was going on..." A rattling cough broke off the rest of his speech.

      "Keep calm. Now slowly, explain what happened," Clint instructed.

     Steve's voice jumped up strangely, "On the news! I saw the orphanage!"

     Cold dread drained through Clint. His body froze mid step, and he nearly missed the fact that he almost tripped. A groan of complaints and a barely restrained "Hey!" behind him indicated the many commuters caught off guard by his sudden stop. They did not earn his attention. Clint found he could barely speak rather than deal with angry New Yorkers. A struggle ensued within himself, as he tried to force his brain to restart and do something logical.

     Fortunately, Steve gained enough breath to finish what he was trying to say, or he feared he would have been stuck on the pavement all day. "Clint, it's been attacked. The orphanage has been attacked!"

     Clint did not even realize he had hung up. He did not even realize he had started moving, pushing past people as he broke out into a full on sprint.

      _The orphanage had been attacked._ The phrase still rang in his ears, coursing through his blood, as his feet pounded the pavement. He remembered the sound of sirens earlier, the ones he had thought were only a memory. Now, he desperately wished they were, that this was all a hoax, a trick. The thought only spurred him onward, past the struggle of taking in air and the burn flaring insistently in his legs.

     The entire run to the orphanage passed in a blur. He had not even chosen his destination, but subconsciously, his body knew where to go. It was not close either; the distance should have made it a long trip, but Clint found that it had faded into nothing. Turning the corner to see the once dignified building made him feel sick; the world tilted and he almost lost his footing.

     If he had thought the run so far had been difficult, closing in on the blackened building was agonizing. Smoke still escaped from its windows, turning the sky above it into a rotten cotton candy cloud. Inside, a few flickers of fire could be seen still burning in the deeper parts of the building.

     The disaster had turned into a public event. Cars of all kinds closed in on the orphanage: cop cars, ambulances, fire trucks. He even suspiciously saw a news van tucked into a corner, probably celebrating their early arrival. Judging by the throng of people being held back by the flimsy caution tape, the catastrophe was certainly considered a spectacle.

     But the state of the majestic building terrified him. The sight of such desolation bled into the pain of the anxiety that was currently crushing his soul into dust and compounded upon his slowly growing despair. Thousands of questions flew through his mind all pertaining to one thing: Jodie.

     As his lungs heaved, and his legs began to shake from the effort, Clint managed to push through the crowd and almost barrel through the caution tape like a run away train. Several bodies stopped him, holding him back with strong arms, each of the cops trying to declare the situation. He had not realized he had started shouting about Jodie until the figures began parting to let him through. He bolted past, eyes focused on the entrance that was still spitting smoke, with half a mind to run straight through. Shouting that filled the area suddenly shot through his consciousness, kicking the rational part of his brain into gear. He stopped suddenly, skidding on the asphalt like a bike that has braked too fast.

     Once he took a chance to look at his surroundings, the world slowed from the super speed it had once been at. Acrid charcoal hit his nose first. It smelled of everything burnt, like the smoke from a campfire, but it was distinctly darker, holding an unclean note. As he looked, he saw the soot generously dusting the building where it had escaped its confines, painting the majority of its pristine landscape a harsh black. It continued trickling the smog like a sleeping dragon.

     Around him, noise exploded in a moment of intense clarity, enough to make his head pulse painfully. He reeled as he took in the commotion from the people around him. Cops and agents scuttled around like mad ants, shouting and directing people through the chaos. Groups of coughing victims were being escorted to the flashing ambulances, as firefighters rushed into the building to contain the almost-dead fire and look for survivors. Nearby, the newscasters were commentating in morbid fascination.

     Clint narrowed in on the people being pulled from the building, covered in ash and bright burns. He ran up to one of the ladies, a staff member it looked like, and spilled words in a rush. "Please," he implored, "Jodie, where is she?" She pulled away from him defensively, immediately making Clint feel guilty. He moved on to another, trying to soften his approach. "Jodie Moore, is she okay?" he asked. The man only shook his head sadly and moved onward to the ambulances. Behind them another figure approached, coughing and spluttering. His glasses were cracked and shoved hastily into place.

     "Mr. Lance!" Clint cried.

     "Oh, yes, what now?" The young man, dazed and confused, stumbled awkwardly towards him. "Who is this?" He peered with an unfocused gaze down at Clint.

     "It's Clint, sir. Now, please," he begged, "I must know: is Jodie okay?" He gripped the man's shoulders tightly, as if the contact would pull an answer out of him.

     Lance blinked rapidly. "Oh, Jodie, yes... she's still in there."

     "What?!" Fear gripped Clint as he looked up into the black maw of the building. He could hear the shouting from the firefighter's inside; the fire seemed to have been put out but they were still upturning the wreckage for trapped victims. _Not fast enough_ , he thought. He growled with gritty determination, "I'm going in."

     The man grabbed his shoulder before he could move away. A cough racked his slender frame. He looked like a twig that was about to break. "No, don't," he choked out, "she was right behind me. They should be helping her right now." He convulsed with another cough, nearly making his glasses bounce off his nose. "Now excuse me, I'm going to get a paramedic," he said as he lumbered off.

     Clint stood alone, biting the urge to whimper quietly in the back of his throat. He felt utterly helpless. Just the other day he had escaped an assassination by the most dangerous criminal organization in New York, and now he was rendered immobile by a fire. Out of all the situations he had been preparing for, and he had even considered the possibility of his own demise, this was the one he had not expected. Such a cruel twist of fate. He was left with the only option of tapping his fingers nervously against his leg - he could not help the itch to hold the smooth shaft of his bow in his hand - as he waited for the seconds to tick by, each making his heart leap more into his throat.

     He was just about to run into the building anyways, consequences were a mute point by now, when another firefighter emerged from the entrance. Clinging tightly to his hand was Jodie, her small, dusty frame standing starkly out against the bright, fire-retardant suit by her side. Clint sprang out of immobility at the sight of her. "Jodie!" he cried, relief making each step towards her lighter.

     The firefighter looked as if he were to hold back, but Jodie resisted and pulled the both of them forward with her abnormal child strength. She fell into Clint's arms, and where he thought she had been held together, he could now tell she was shaking from fear. He patted her hair, smoothing the ash out of it. "Hey, hey, its okay. You're safe now," he soothed. She burrowed deeper into his arms.

     "That kid's something special," the firefighter rumbled warmly, "She stayed behind to help some of the other kids get out safely."

     Clint looked in shock at her smudged face. "Did you really?"

     She coughed lightly, a small noise that made worms eat trails through his heart. "Yeah," she whispered, "I just wanted to be like the tree. The one that loved the boy." She coughed again, harder, and it shook her entire body. Clint could not help but kiss her forehead, as he felt a great tide of pride and protectiveness surge through him.

     He looked up at the fireman still standing protectively over the two. "I'll get her to a medic. You should go back in and see if anyone else needs help."

     The man, not much older than Clint, nodded. "You keep him safe, " he told Jodie, "He needs you." Clint could not help but wonder if the man had a family, even a daughter, as he entered the building again. Guilt and gratitude pierced him simultaneously. He looked down at Jodie, still clinging to his middle like a leech. "Come on," he urged, "Let's get you fixed up."

     He scooped her up into his arms, drawing her hot body closer. The ambulances were crowded, but he managed to corner a physician as she flitted between people. Clint barely even had to say anything before she began fussing over Jodie. Her hands flew quickly, moving with the precision of an expert.

     "Hey, sweetie, how are you doing?" she spoke softly, with a care and patience Clint did not expect from a busy paramedic.

     "Okay," Jodie said simply. Her voice was starting to gain more strength, the raspiness from the smoke being lost with each word. "I'm better now that Clint's here."

     He looked down in surprise at her statement. She was looking up expectantly at him with wide eyes. The small smudge of soot on her face stood out strangely; it did not make her look like a victim unlike the others who had escaped before her. He placed his hand over her small one, "And I'm glad you're safe."

     The paramedic smiled at the two of them. "You two get along really well. You probably keep him in check, don't you?" She poked Jodie in the stomach, causing her to giggle madly.

     Clint could not hold back the complaint, "Why does everyone always say that?"

      The paramedic - Helen, Clint realized upon looking at her name tag - turned back to Jodie with a large smile. "Hey, can you do me a favor?" she asked.

     Jodie's face lit up. "Yes!"

     Helen pointed to another boy, sitting on one of the many gurneys they had wheeled out for the victims. "See him?" Jodie nodded in the affirmative. "He doesn't have anybody to talk to. The fire was pretty scary, and I think he needs a friend. Can you be his friend?"

     Jodie almost jumped out of her seat, if it were not for Helen holding her safely back. "Yes, I love making friends!" she said.

     "Alright, go on then." She let Jodie slip off the gurney, where she practically skipped to the other boy. They watched as she began chattering endlessly while the boy just smiled slightly and nodded his head.

     Helen turned to him, still friendly, but seriousness was written on her face. "All of her vitals are fine. There seems to be minimal damage to her lungs. so she didn't inhale that much smoke. There are a few minors burns but nothing big. There shouldn't be any long term effects."

     Clint exhaled in relief. "Thank you so much. I just want her to be safe."

     She nodded in understanding. "Normally, I would say the biggest issue is the trauma associated with the event, but in this case..." she turned to look at Jodie, who had just succeeded in making her new friend giggle, "I think that's the least of your worries. She is very resilient."

     He just nodded, huffing in agreement. "Yeah, I've noticed."

     She smiled, but turned to her equipment and started packing it back into her kit. "Well, excuse me, Mr.-"

     "Clint."

     "Mr. Clint," she tipped her head respectively, "I have other patients I must attend to." With that formal goodbye, she whisked herself off to the next person afflicted by the fire.

     Clint stood by himself once again, unsure of what to do. He debated on going over to Jodie, but she seemed to be having a good time on her own. He settled for staring up at the blackened building. Something prickled in the back of his mind, a sort of irritation. He wondered what had caused the fire, and the feeling grew.

     "Mr. Barton!" a calm voice barked. He jumped out of his reverie, and turned to see the form of Agent Coulson striding towards him. He drew his shoulders back defensively. A quick emotion was painted across the man's face, as if a small fuse had erupted in his brain. After their conversation at the precinct, Clint wished to have nothing to do with the man.

     The agent stopped shortly in front of him. "It's a surprise to see you here, but I suppose I should be grateful. It saves me time. "

     "Are you going to arrest me?" Clint growled.

     A tired look passed over Coulson's face. "The situation has been complicated. Minors have been involved, and I fear we may have to take drastic measures."

     "Wait, minors?" he wondered aloud. He looked at the wreckage of the orphanage before him, and all the wounded people that had escaped from it. "Don't tell me this has anything to do with the Romanov's?"

     "The forensics division has been analyzing the fire for causes. They found this in the visiting room." He pulled a bag out of his jacket that held a heavily charred object. "They determined this as the start of the fire. Bombs aren't usually employed to create fires, but this was made with the purpose in mind. But whats more important is the make." He turned it over to show a stylized R on the underside, barely visible under the char. "This matches up with other bombs that we know are made by the Romanov's. Also, some of the chemical analysts determined the compounds used in it, which match the preferred structure of bombs made by Romanov mobsters."

     The strange irritation in the back of Clint's mind bubbled into anger. "So you're saying-"

     "The Romanov's planned this attack," the agent finished. "But the question is why? We know that the only two people they have attacked recently have been you and Natasha. There should be no connection to the orphanage, but your presence here calls that into question."

     Clint opened his mouth, though he was unsure what he planned to say. He had just heard the orphanage was on fire and wanted to spectate? And he liked to spectate from behind the caution tape? He was about to spew some fabricated crap, when he heard someone calling his name.

     "Clint!" the light voice of Jodie shouted. He turned to see her running up to him as fast as she could. She crashed into his legs and hugged tightly to them. "Clint," she insisted, "Mac -he's my new friend- had to go, so I came back."

     He nodded at her, and looked sheepishly up at the agent. Coulson lifted his eyebrows, but comprehension had dawned on his face. So long for faking his way out of this.

     The taller man slipped the evidence back into his jacket. "Well, I suppose, Mr. Barton, that my question has been answered. Now it is up to you on how you would like to proceed. Bear in mind our earlier conversation and the new information I have divulged to you."

     Clint looked back at the charred building, then down at Jodie. Soot was still smeared across her skin, and a few, nasty burn marks littered her arms. The anger in him burst wildly. It was his fault. The Romanov's must have discovered his connection to Jodie and exploited it. If they could not reach him, the closest thing to him was the next best bet. He drew Jodie close to him, and glared indignantly at Coulson. "I accept your previous offer, but you must meet some of my conditions as well."

     Coulson looked unimpressed by his new sense of bravado. "Wonderful. I look forward to negotiating with you, _Hawkeye_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this chapter was satisfactory enough after over a month long wait. And now, maybe Hawkeye is making a resurgence ^.^  
> Also, Helen Cho has made a small appearance. Don't blame me that Age of Ultron is now influencing this fic. But Clintasha always! I will never give it up!


	11. Stark Industries

     Being trapped in the agent's car made Clint jumpy. He should have been tired; he could not think of the last time he had gotten rest. Sleep did not count; each night had been shallow and restless as if it had passed in mere moments. But now, after all the excitement at the orphanage, he kept darting his eyes to the agent distrustfully. Worry that he had made a bad decision in taking his offer nipped at the back of his mind.

     According to the man, they were headed to a safe location. Clint wondered why things could not have been discussed there at the orphanage, but the agent had been short with him; he did not feel that pushing things would make matters better. Trust was still not granted, though. He remembered the agents Coulson had stationed to protect Clint. While well-meaning, it became pointless because of the Romanov's; they seemed to be more knowledgeable and unpredictable than expected. Jodie had been put in danger despite any precaution they took.

     Jodie herself was quite the opposite to his internal storm. She had been restless at first, but had quickly started yawning every few minutes. The ordeal must have drained her. Clint was not surprised when her head came to rest on his shoulder, but it still sent a jolt through his core. His racing thoughts stopped suddenly. Jodie's face was lax and peaceful. He almost felt apart from himself as he curled his arm around her.

     "We need to discuss your conditions, Mr. Barton," the agent said.

     Clint looked up, caught off guard. "Isn't that why we are heading to this 'secret location'?"

     Coulson huffed, "I was hoping to get this conversation out of the way before we arrive. There are certain...difficult people we will have to deal with; reducing the duration of our conversation will be beneficial. Therefore, please state your stipulations."

     His fingers tightened around the sleeping form next to him. "I have one condition: Jodie is taken somewhere safe."

     The agent hummed thoughtfully. "And this is your only rule?" he inquired.

     "Yes."

     The other's shoulders lifted in an almost shrug. "I suppose that can be accomplished. Swaying legal issues in our favor will be the hardest, but SHIELD has a large amount of influence."

     "You have someplace to take her then?"

     "I think I know just the place," Coulson said. Clint was sure if he could see his face an amused expression was written all over it. He looked out the window at all the cars passing through the streets. It was not rush hour yet, but the streets of New York were never empty. He noticed they were heading deeper into the city, where the more modern part of town was. Clint said, "Would you mind telling me where we are headed?"

     The agent's answer was short: "I'm sure you'll know it once we get close."

     He squinted at the back of the man's head. If that were the case, the building was surely well-known. How was that a secret? He decided to keep silent, but irritation still prickled his skin. He did not like when others were cryptic; he preferred things to be straight and to the point. Nonsense only complicated situations.

     Clint watched as the buildings around them continued to grow taller and more squished together. Shiny signs and reflective windows became the common detail on the urban structures. If he looked down the street, the Stark Tower loomed in the distance like the epitome of modern times. Next to the massive structure, the other skyscrapers appeared to be fledglings.

     He never came to this part of town often. He mostly shifted through a cycle between the cafe, his apartment, and the orphanage. With surprise flooding him as Coulson parked the vehicle in front of the obelisk, the near-sickening feeling that all of that was changing flooded him.

     The end of the car's relaxing rumbling brought Jodie back to the world of consciousness. She pulled her head up from Clint's shoulder drowsily. "Where are we?" she mumbled.

     There was a wet patch on his shoulder that Clint _almost_ wanted to feel disgusted about. He looked up dreamily at the tall building as he opened the car door. The Stark Tower was impressive, and intimidating, he thought as he looked up to its top. Confused, he wondered about Coulson's choice of meeting places. This was a corporate building, not a police department or safe house. "Um, why are we at Stark Tower?" he questioned.

     "Mr. Stark has been involved with SHIELD for quite some time. He is one of our most important allies." Clint could almost feel the word "unfortunately" bit back by the agent.

     Jodie hopped out of the car with a renewed sense of energy. "Wow," she murmured, "Its Stark Tower." Her eyes shined brightly as they looked the building up and down. Hands clenched under her chin flaunted her barely concealed excitement. "What are we doing here?"

     "We are having a meeting, Jodie. A very important meeting," Clint said seriously. He worried she was going to make a scene; which was the last thing they wanted when their location was supposed to be a secret. Oddly, he thought he saw the agent smiling down at her as they walked into the building.

     The inside was sleekly designed, with high ceilings and a pristine modern style. A receptionist sat at a desk in the back of the room. Upon seeing them enter, she tipped her head at Coulson. "Mr. Stark will meet you on his level."

     Coulson nodded in thank you, and directed them to the elevator. Clint held onto Jodie's arm as they entered, since she seemed to be vibrating with energy. She asked with a wide smile, "Are we going to meet Tony?"

     Clint's eyes darted to the agent. He was not really sure what was going on. Even Jodie's extreme excitement caught him off guard; to him Tony Stark was just another millionaire that had no effect on him. Well, perhaps that was no longer the case. Next to them, it seemed as though that amused smile of the agent's was plastered onto his face. It almost looked like he was planning something that spelled bad news for its recipient.

     Clint kept his confusion to himself as they ascended, despite all the questions burning in him. The silence, or the lack of silence, was awkward. The distinct tune of the Beatles floated around them, something Clint thought an odd choice for elevator music. In fact, the entire situation was weird; he was currently experiencing a throwback in music culture with a reserved but constantly amused agent and an excited young girl. If he did not feel out of place in the fancy corporate building already, he certainly did now.

     The elevators opened with a charming ding on one of the upper floors. Before they stepped out, Coulson turned to them. "I just want to reiterate: Mr. Stark can be difficult to deal with. He has a very particular personality that not all people get along with." He looked as though he was speaking from personal experience. Clint nodded and prepared for the worst. You never knew with these rich types.

     The room they stepped into was expansive. Different floor levels broke up the space into different areas, with a comfortable living area sunken below the main expanse. A white, and thoroughly stocked, bar was pressed into one of the walls. The entirety of it ended in massive floor to ceiling windows that looked out over New York. Clint thought he could see the last wisps of smoke curling over the orphanage in the distance. Jodie, on the other hand, gasped in surprise. He looked down at her with a pang; he realized she must have never seen a place that could be so nice.

     He was startled when Coulson spoke into the emptiness. "Jarvis, I was under the impression that we were meeting Mr. Stark. Unfortunately, his presence is misplaced."

     A voice from nowhere answered back: "Terribly sorry sir, but it seems he is a bit caught up at the moment." Clint could detect a british accent in the voice, but was fruitless in discovering where it was coming from. He thought Jodie was going to divide into two from excitement. She was currently looking everywhere for the source of the mysterious voice. The agent, on the other hand, groaned in frustration. "Do not tell me he is on a personal escapade with some doe-eyed maiden again."

    Clint wondered at the statement. Sure, everyone knew the man was a playboy -it was all over the news every other weekend - but had it really manifested into a regular annoyance for the agent? He found solace in knowing Jodie was too young to understand what that statement meant.

     "Sorry I'm late to the party fellas. Just been a little caught up," a new voice announced. Clint turned to see the alleged Tony Stark stride in with purpose. He had not known what to expect from the man. Based on his status and what he had seen from his press releases, he had thought the man would be clad in an expensive suit that was worth more than Clint's entire wardrobe combined. Instead, a loose white shirt hung off his shoulders and his facial hair looked more untamed than it appeared in the media. He could faintly smell the grease stains splattering his pants. The man leaned against the bar casually, but it reeked of cockiness to Clint.

     "Stuck in the garage again, Mr. Stark?" Coulson spoke up, "I admit I was worried you were engaged in other activities."

     Stark rumbled quietly in his chest, "Is that the only way you think I spend my time?" He tapped his head, "I have a brain, you know. Won't stop running. Working on cars helps me think best. This company wasn't built by a dimwit." Coulson shifted his weight in impatience. Clint was surprised he managed to make the action appear indignant instead of pouty.

     Realizing the agent wasn't going to say anything, Stark stepped forward and gesticulated in a wondrous way. "But I suppose this visit wasn't meant for a pleasant chat, which leads me to ask: what are you doing here?"

     Jodie, who had been clinging tightly to Clint's arm, suddenly ran straight for the millionaire. "Tony!" she cried.

    "Jodie!" Clint shouted. He ran after her small form.

     Stark leaned further backwards against the bar, with an expression that could only be described as put off by Jodie's behavior. Surprisingly, she stopped before she could barrel into his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes of hers. Clint stopped in surprise of how she reigned herself in.

     "Hi, Tony" she said quietly. It was almost shy, as if all her excitement had suddenly drained. "I think you're really cool."

     Stark laughed nervously. "Thanks kid."

     Behind him, Clint heard the agent's small gasp. He turned to see his shocked expression, but he was looking at Stark, and not Jodie like he expected. The ding of the elevators broke them out of their strange reverie. Natasha stood in the doorway, with her signature expression that was somewhere between boredom and seriousness. "Coulson, it seems as though we have important things to discuss."

     "Ah, Natasha, perfect timing," the agent said, ''We can get started."

     Stark did not appear happy at the redhead's presence. "You didn't tell me she was going to be here." He fixed Coulson with a look after he caught the man glaring at him, "Listen, Nat and I don't particularly get along, which you should know."

     "It would help if you didn't call me things like that, Stark," she said tersely.

     The millionaire thrust his hands in her direction. "See? I try to be friendly with nicknames and this is what I get," Stark complained.

     Coulson was deadpan, "And none of that matters. Now, we have a meeting to conduct."

     Stark grumbled but led them to the large couch in the living room portion of the room, but not before grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the bar. He generously filled a tumbler with the amber liquid. "Want some?" he offered the group.

     Natasha raised an eyebrow at the man. "Come on," he urged, "You definitely need it. Loosen up once in a while."

     "Thanks but no," Coulson spoke up for the both of them. Stark looked past him to Clint, who had seemed to have escaped his notice until now. "How about you?"

     Clint shook his head. Thinking of drinking at a time like this sounded selfish, and he had never been fond of whiskey. He could have gone for a good cup of coffee however.

     Stark shrugged. "Your loss," he said as he took a large swig from the glass. "Now, can you explain to me why we're meeting at my tower, Agent?"

     "I assume you have noticed all the commotion going on in the city lately," he stated.

     "Its hard not to. Jarvis likes to butt in when I'm in the garage. Says its good for me to know whats happening in the outside world."

     Coulson, who had refused to sit down, began pacing the smooth floor slowly. "The Romanov's have become increasingly troublesome lately. Now, the orphanage has been attacked."

     The millionaire scoffed. "That's bold, even for them. But how does this connect to these two?" he gestured to Clint and Jodie.

     "Mr. Barton has found himself tangled in this mess. Jodie is a victim from the orphanage fire. She was targeted to get to him," Coulson explained.

     "Why are they here?"

     "Mr. Barton has shown incredible skills that can be useful to SHIELD in this matter. However, he needs training. I intend for Natasha and him to be partners, and this takes practice."

     "Wait, a minute, you expect me to be her partner?" the question came out more incredulous than he expected. A glare was thrown his way.

     The agent leveled with him, "Yes, because you agreed to my offer. Obviously, you two will need to work on getting along."

     Stark spoke up, "Or perhaps Cupid could just pay a visit and..." He mimicked shooting an arrow at them. He earned the pleasure of having two glares directed at him. Clint felt this man chafe at his patience. He was too cocky. The comment also felt like a certain jab at archery, which, as much as he did not want to admit, bruised terribly.

     "And how about the kid?" Stark asked. Clint realized that Jodie had stayed quiet since her little outburst. He wondered what she thought of all this.

     Coulson said, "In order for Clint to agree to my offer, I had to supply a safe place for her to live until the issue with the Romanov's has been solved. Therefore-"

     "Oh no, no," Stark interrupted, "My tower is not becoming a daycare."

     "I assure you she will be well taken care of without you being there."

     The millionaire's eye twitched, and his face appeared to soften for a second. "Fine, she can stay on the trainee level." His words were muted and devoid of emotion, much different than his usual animated style of talking.

     "How is this place _that_ safe? It is a public building and not exactly discreet," Clint asked.

     Surprisingly, Stark answered, "Of course it is! I admit I don't want a child running around my tower, but this is easily one of the most well protected places in New York."

     "Mr. Stark does not like his technology being questioned," the agent explained.

     "Not true!" he cried indignantly, "Right, Jarvis?"

     "Unfortunately, it is true, sir."

     He threw his hands into the air, "I can never win."

     "Stark's Tower contains some of the best training grounds accessible to SHIELD. Because of this, the tower has been outfitted with the latest technology to keep it safe. Also, the alliance between Stark Industries and SHIELD is still unknown to our adversaries," Coulson said. "I assure you Jodie will be safe if she stays here."

     Clint did not know what could be a better option. And if she stayed here, Clint could also watch over her. Deciding it was the best possible option, he nodded to the agent.

     "Well, it seems like that's settled then." Stark stood up and stretched. "They can pick whichever room they like on the trainee level, since they're all empty right now. I assume you know the way, Agent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some cars to work on." Picking up the bottle of whiskey, he turned to leave.

     "Mr. Tony?" Jodie asked. Clint looked in surprise to her. The millionaire turned around and bore the same feeling in his expression. Her voice was small, "I didn't get to finish what I was saying. I think its cool how you build technology to help people. At the orphanage-" she stopped suddenly, and looked down sadly. Clint pulled her close to his side in an effort to be reassuring. She blinked until her eyes suddenly lit up again, "Ms. Garner is really nice. I heard her talking about her mom in the hospital. Everything went dark during her surgery, but they had a generator made by you. Her mom is better now. I think its cool how you helped her."

     Stark stood still. Something shone in his eyes, not tears, but an expression that was held back. He let out a small laugh. "Thanks, kid." He laughed again, louder, and it seemed as if his normal charisma was seeping back. "I do what I can." He beamed, and walked out of the room dramatically.

     Coulson had the same shocked expression as before. "I have never seen him act like that before. He usually doesn't like kids." Clint hugged Jodie. He had to admit he was impressed by her most of the time.

     "That's an improvement from his usual personality," Natasha interjected. Clint thought he imagined it, but it appeared as if she looked down at Jodie with a small smile.

     "Well, we need to get you situated in your rooms. Tomorrow, I will send a SHIELD agent to begin your training," Coulson said. They followed him to the elevator. Now, Pink Floyd greeted their eardrums. The ride was much shorter, and the floor they landed on opened up onto a long hallway. A large set of double doors sat opposite the elevator, and each side of the hallway was filled with more doors. Clint could see them turn at the end and continue.

     "Typically, this floor is split between men and women, but currently we have no SHIELD agents training here. Feel free to pick any room you wish," Coulson said. Natasha broke off on her own, taking the left corridor and entering a random door. Clint led Jodie down the opposite direction, following the hallway until it turned. There were more doors here, and he opened one a few doors down.

     "Your belongings will be retrieved from your apartment, and returned to you. As for Jodie, I'm afraid that won't happen seeing as the entire orphanage is under investigation."

     Clint turned to him. "Thank you," he said, and he actually felt like he meant it. Maybe Jodie would be safe here, and that's all that mattered.

     Upon walking into the room, he found it to be surprisingly modest in furniture. Compared to the rest of the tower, which had been modern and high class, the room was designed with functionality in mind: a plain white bed with a small nightstand and a dresser on the nearest wall. The only other piece of furniture was a plush armchair. A large window was embedded into the far wall, that looked out over the city. Clint welcomed the sight; being high up always made him feel at ease.

     Jodie ran to the window. "Isn't this place cool?" she asked.

     He smiled down at her. "Yeah, I suppose it is." He joined her at the window, looking out over the city as the sun began its descent. A small part of him worried for what was to come; he did not like the idea of his old life having to make a reappearance, but he took this moment for what it was and sighed a few knots out of his heart. It had been a stressful couple of days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark is now in the mix! Gotta love that genius millionaire playboy philanthropist.   
> I'm not sure how much I'll be able to update now, since I've gotten to the point that I haven't really planned out. I'll try to keep updates somewhat regular.   
> I hope you liked this chapter, have a good day lovely readers!

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you liked it! I will update this story as soon as possible, however, updates will probably be very sporadic.  
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


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